BY 
WILLIAM  STEWARD  GORDON 


ILLUSTRATED 


PRINTED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR 


THE   METHODIST  BOOK   CONCERN 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
WILLIAM  STEWARD  GORDON 


TO 

THE    PIONEERS 

OF  THE  OLD  WEST 

WHO  MADE  THE  NEW  WEST  POSSIBLE 


212S9SO 


Most  of  those  verses  have  been  written  in  self-defense. 
At  the  close  of  many  a  busy  day  they  went  galloping 
through  the  mind  until  rest  was  sought  in  writing  them. 
You  will  find  considerable  variety  in  the  "menu."  If 
the  first  dish  served  does  not  suit  your  taste,  kindly  try 
another. 

College-day  dreams  of  a  literary  nature  usually  fade 
perceptibly  under  the  heat  and  stress  of  life's  summer. 
The  writer  has  been  no  exception  to  the  rule.  However, 
if  these  pages  add  their  mite  to  the  sum  of  wholesome 
happiness,  and  in  any  degree  assist  in  the  interpreta- 
tion of  that  wonderland  known  as  "the  West,"  this  labor 
of  love  shall  not  have  been  in  vain. 

Credit  is  due  the  Spokane,  Portland  &  Seattle  Rail- 
way Co.,  the  Daily  Budget  and  The  Astorian  of  this  city 
for  some  of  the  illustrations  used. 

WILLIAM  STEWARD  GORDON. 
Astoria,  Oregon,  September,  1914. 


INTRODUCTION 
BY  BISHOP  EDWIN  HOLT  HUGHES,  LL.D. 

The  life  of  a  pastor  seems  to  give  some  natural  prepa- 
rations for  the  writing  of  poetry.  There  is,  first,  the 
necessity  of  studying  the  great  verses  of  the  world,  even 
if  the  motive  he  solely  homiletical.  The  intelligent 
preacher  feels  that  he  must  acquaint  himself  with  the 
masterpieces,  and  he  feels,  too,  that  there  is  a  theologi- 
cal reason  for  knowing  "In  Memoriam,"  a  sociological 
reason  for  knowing  "Aurora  Leigh,"  and  a  patriotic 
reason  for  knowing  "The  Crisis"  and  "The  Commemora- 
tion Ode."  His  whole  life,  whether  as  preacher  or  as 
man  or  as  citizen,  leads  him  to  the  great  poems. 

Besides  this,  he  must  dwell  more  or  less  in  that  realm 
of  ideals  wherein  the  true  poet  makes  his  home.  What- 
ever may  be  the  testimony  of  the  poets,  the  preachers 
would  be  ready  to  say  that  they  feel  their  kinship  with 
the  poets  of  the  race.  In  fact,  one  will  often  observe 
that  in  the  tributes  to  the  poet  the  word  "preacher" 
could  be  substituted  without  violence,  and  that  even  in 
Wordsworth's  tribute  to  the  Pastor  the  word  "poet" 
would  not  have  been  strange.  More  than  occasionally 
the  preacher  and  the  poet  are  the  same  man.  The  union 
is  seen  in  lives  such  as  Charles  Kingsley  and  George 
Herbert.  The  sermons  and  the  poems  got  on  well  to- 
gether, while  the  preacher  and  the  poet  occupied  the 
same  tabernacle  and  lived  in  peace. 

In  the  second  generation  the  influence  of  the  clerical 
life  on  the  poetic  impulse  is  even  more  noticeable.  In 
England  Tennyson  was  the  son  of  a  minister;  in  Ger- 


io  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

many  Lessing;  while  in  America  Lowell,  Emerson, 
Holmes,  Van  Dyke  and  Gilder  confess  a  ministerial 
ancestry.  Evidently  the  Manse  invites  the  Muses;  they 
hover  above  its  plain  thinking  and  simple  living;  they 
share  its  moods  arid  take  many  of  its  children  into  their 
higher  captivity ;  and  they  go  thither  to  have  their  light 
and  tripping  quality  sobered  by  the  sense  of  the  spiritual. 

Many  of  the  poems  in  this  book  are  Parsonage  chil- 
dren. They  were  born  at  various  points  of  an  itinerant 
life.  They  have  something  of  its  pathos,  something  of 
its  humanness,  something  of  its  humor,  something  of 
its  religious  preeminence.  They  have  appeared  in  local 
papers  here  and  there,  and  they  have  once  in  a  while 
ventured  into  the  field  of  the  magazines.  Judging  by 
the  tale  implied  by  one  of  the  poems  we  may  presume 
that  sometimes  they  have  gone  away  from  home,  only 
to  be  told  by  some  editor  that  they  would  better  go  back 
to  their  native  walls !  But  now  they  are  to  come  in 
from  their  wanderings  and  are  to  be  housed  together  in 
a  volume.  Those  who  visit  them  in  their  new  homo 
will  find  that  they  represent  the  good  moods  of  life — 
inspiring  its  efforts,  soothing  its  sorrows,  glorifying  its 
commonness. 

The  author  is  a  good  man,  a  good  pastor,  and  a  good 
preacher.  His  friends  claim  that  he  is  a  good  poet  too. 
He  himself  modestly  asks  that  his  little  book  be  intro- 
duced by  one  of  his  brother  ministers,  who  now  has 
much  pleasure  in  giving  it  a  Godspeed  and  in  expressing 
the  hope  that  its  verses  may  touch  men  into  the  better 
life. 

Episcopal  Eesidence,  San  Francisco, 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Vindication 13 

The  West  Wind : 14 

A  Welcome  to  the  Fair 15 

The  Western  Spirit 17 

The  March  up  Mount  Hood 18 

The  Song  of  the  Pioneer 20 

Jupiter's  Horses 23 

The  Albany  Chautauqua 26 

The  Peril  of  Japan 27 

Silver  Creek  Falls 28 

The  Lewis  and  Clark  Trail 31 

An  Oregon  Dawn 34 

Harvest  in  Umatilla 34 

The  Apple  Fair 35 

Autumn  on  the  Umpqua 36 

The  Fated  Race 38 

Victoria   41 

Jason  Lee 42 

The  Old  Barlow  Road 43 

Yellowstone   Park 47 

The  Sleeping  Giant 51 

Ode  to  Mount  Hood 53 

The  Indian  Death  Wail 56 

The   Garden   in   the   Skies 59 

Ode  to  Astoria 61 

The  Path  to  Panama 63 

Oregon  Holly 66 

Back  to  Albany 67 

The   Westward   March 68 

PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

A  Song  for  Independence  Day 77 

The  Visit  of  the  Fleet 78 

The  Christ  of  Argentine 79 

Hymn  for  Memorial  Day 80 

Mental  Horizons 82 

The  Eagle  Ride;  or,  See  First  Thy  Native  Land 84 


12  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FATHER  HUCKLEBERRY'S  JINGLES 

Father  Huckleberry  and  the  Aeroplane 92 

Father  Huckleberry  at  Seattle 94 

Webfoot    in    the    Lead 96 

My  First  Piece  of  Bear 98 

A  Hustle  for  the  Fair 100 

Glacier   Park 101 

Uncle    Abe's    Advice 103 

To  an  Editor 104 

The  Empty  Gun 105 

Rural  Progress 106 

SENTIMENTAL 

Memory's    Dream 110 

Meditation   Ill 

Transition    Ill 

Love's    Interpretation 112 

My  Baby  Sister  Has  a  Beau 113 

The  Summertime  of  Love 115 

Forsaken  118 

Ion   119 

MISCELLANEOUS 

The  Epic  of  the  Age 122 

Sing  Out  in  the  Sunlight 124 

The  Arabian  Horse 127 

Old    Squiers 130 

Suburban  Life 131 

A  Man  of  Forty 134 

A  New  Song  of  the  Mill 135 

A  Poet's  Appeal  for  the  Natural 137 

The  Call  of  the  Coast 141 

The  Ministry  of  Nature 143 

The  Victory  of  Faith 146 

An  Echo  from  the  Sea 147 

Triumphus   148 


A  VINDICATION 

Say  what  you  will  of  "rhymesters," 
And  "the  poet  in  the  spring," 

The  earth  has  more  of  music 
Because  he  tries  to  sing. 

He  may  not  soar  to  Alpine  heights 
If  nature  clipped  his  wing, 

And  few.  indeed,  may  know  his  name 
AYhen  he  has  ceased  to  sing; 

But  how  we'd  miss  the  many  hirds 

That  sing  a  minor  strain, 
And  the  unassuming  lilies 

That  blossom  in  the  lane ! 

For  they  help  to  swell  the  chorus 
Of  the  song  that  never  dies, 

As  the  music  of  creation 
Is  ascending  to  the  skies. 

Then  sing  jour  little  heart-song! 

It  may  cheer  another  soul 
As  he  marches  up  the  mountain, 

As  he  presses  to  the  goal. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


THE  WEST  WIND 

When  but  a  boy  with  eager  ears 
The  winds  would  talk  to  me ; 

They  told  me  tales  of  mountain  meres 
And  stories  of  the  sea. 


The  North  Wind  is  Boreas'  breath — 
He  scuds  across  the  plain, 

And  howls  in  hurricanes  of  death 
And  winding-sheets  of  rain. 

The  East  Wind  tells  of  sage  and  sand 

And  coyotes  in  a  pack — 
Of  whirling  cyclones  in  his  hand, 

And  havoc  in  his  track. 


But  the  West  Wind  is  a  pirate  bold; 

She  robs  the  sea  and  sings 
Of  dewdrops  rich  as  yellow  gold — 

She  bears  them  on  her  wings, 

And  pours  them  out  so  full  and  free 

That  baby  streamlets  grow; 
And  so  without  the  wind  you  see 

The  rivers  could  not  flow. 

Her  silken  wings  now  fan  my  face, 

And  perfume  shed  the  while 
Fresh  from  Pacific's  fond  embrace 

And  sweet  Hawaii's  isle. 

She  knows  where  Arabs  pitch  their  tent 

And  dolphins  swim  the  sea, 
The  secrets  of  the  Orient, 

And  Neptune's  mystery. 

The  South  Wind  brings  the  heat  and  dust, 
The  North  Wind  brings  the  snow, 

But  Nature  sings,  for  sing  she  must, 
When  the  balmy  West  Winds  blow. 

*    *    » 

A  WELCOME  TO  THE  FAIR 

(Written  for  the  Panama  Exposition.) 

To  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west, 

Sierra's  eagle  cries: 
"Come  see  the  land  we  love  the  best — 

'Eureka !'  'Tis  our  prize." 


16  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

The  four  winds  catch  the  eagle  cry, 
And  waft  it  round  the  world. 

Inviting  ships  of  sea  and  sky 
To  see  the  flag  unfurled. 

A  continent  is  cut  in  twain, 

Ignoring  nature's  law, 
And  men  from  every  mart  and  main 

AVill  honor  Panama. 

Westward  !  Westward  !  o'er  the  plain 

Is  borne  on  every  gale — 
They  come  by  broncho,  car,  and  train 

O'er  every  western  trail. 

Eastward !  Eastward !  set  the  sail, 

Mikado's  men  of  war, 
Come  tread  in  peace  the  mystic  trail 

In  Frisco's  harbor  bar. 

Northward !  Northward !  o'er  "the  line" 
From  old  Magellan's  strait, 

The  mermaid  paths  upon  the  brine 
Lead  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

Southward !  Southward  !  is  the  goal- 
Let  not  the  dog  train  stay 
Till  every  "musher"  from  the  pole 
.  Is  camped  upon  the  Bay ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  17 


THE  WESTEBN  SPIKIT 

Xo  language  can  define  it 

And  the  miner  cannot  mine  it — 
'Tis  illusive  as  the  spirit  of  the  wind. 

X<>  chemist  can  distill  it, 

To  tame  it  is  to  kill  it, 
And  it  leaves  the  world's  contestants  all  behind. 

'Tis  the  spirit  of  Seattle, 

And  the  hammers'  hum  and  rattle 
Of  Portland  as  she  pulsates  in  her  power. 

'Tis  Willamette's  growing  pains, 

As  she  clutches  at  the  reins 
Of  Progress  at  a  hundred  miles  an  hour. 

It's  the  tramp  of  herds  of  cattle 
And  the  war  whoop  of  the  battle — 
It's  a  sort  of  magic  microbe  in  the  blood. 


i8  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

It's  the  patriotic  passion 
Kunning  wild  in  Western  fashion, 
And  expanded  with  the  wideness  of  the  wood. 

Why,  listen,  don't  you  hear  it? 

'Tis  the  Eooseveltian  spirit, 
And  the  bucking  of  the  bronchos  at  Cheyenne. 

'Tis  the  song  of  Forty-niner, 

And  the  shout  of  Dawson  miner, 
With  the  hustle  and  the  bustle  of  the  glen. 

'Tis  the  recklessness  of  youth 

And  the  daring  of  Duluth, 
In  a  medley  and  romance  of  the  mind. 

'Tis  the  spirit  of  adventure, 

And  you  cannot  catch  or  quench  her 
With  an  auto  and  an  aeroplane  combined. 

'Tis  the  spirit  of  the  mountain, 

And  old  Ponce's  fabled  fountain, 
Set  to  music  in  Multnomah's  cataract. 

It  has  struck  the  West  to  win  it 

And  you'd  better  all  be  in  it, 
For  it's  going,  and  it's  never  coming  back. 

»     »     v 

THE  MAHCII  UP  MOUNT  HOOD 
(Written  on  Mount  Hood,  August  11,  1910.) 

Fall  in  line  at  the  midnight  call, 
With  screw-shod  shoes  and  bloomers  and  all, 
For  the  ice  is  hard  and  the  going  is  good, 
So  hurrah  for  the  summit  of  old  Mount  Hood ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  19 

And  here's  to  the  monarch  old  and  gray, 
And  licre's  to  the  guides  who  lead  the  Avay, 
And  a  jollier  band  of  maidens  and  men 
Will  never  make  tracks  on  the  mountain  again. 

Get  your  colored  specs  and  your  Alpine  stock, 
Which  you  will  not  trade  for  a  city  block, 
And  follow  the  lantern  single  file, 
To  the  goal  of  your  day-dream,  mile  on  mile. 

Our  shadows  stalk  across  the  sand 
Like  the  ghost  of  some  dead  Indian  band, 
Up  glacier  rivers,  o'er  shale  and  shelf, 
From  Mountain  View  to  the  mountain  itself. 

Ere  the  morning  star  has  said  good-by 
An  arch  of  glory  gilds  the  sky, 
And  a  giant  silhouette  fills  the  west 
Like  some  departing  mountain  guest. 

Let  the  faint  of  heart  no  longer  dare, 
For  the  ice-ax  clicks  in  the  frosty  air, 
And  this  is  the  tocsin  that  greets  the  dawn, 
'Tis  on  and  up,  'tis  up  and  on. 

Through  sulphur  fumes  at  the  crater's  edge, 
And  up  the  ropes  on  the  turquoise  ledge — 
And  what  is  the  cry  that  greets  us  then  ? 
It's,  "Paint  your  face  and  at  it  again." 

From  moraines  we  mount  the  sharp  arete 
Where  the  snow  tracks  red  like  bloody  feet, 
And  icicles  fringe  the  caverns  like  corn, 
O'er  fathomless  deeps  where  the  rivers  are  born. 


20  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

On  ladders  we  leap  the  last  crevasse, 
While  lips  are  mute  till  we  safely  pass, 
And  we  seem  to  stand  at  heaven's  door 
And  shout  "Excelsior  !"  no  more. 

In  silent  awe  we  view  the  sight 

Of  beauty,  majesty,  and  might, 

And  this  is  the  word  for  the  welkin  wall 

Man  is  nothin  —  God  is  all. 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  PIOXEER 

(Read     at     the     Pioneers'     Association     at     Brownsville, 
Oregon,  1911.) 

1  would  sing  a  song  for  the  pioneer, 

That  sturdy  soul  and  bold, 
Whose  rugged  worth  to  the  western  world 

Has  never  half  been  told. 

With  buckskin  leggins,  belt  and  knife, 

And  trusted  rifle  true, 
He  coped  with  nature,  beasts,  and  men, 

And  came  out  victor,  too. 

He  often  ate  but  once  a  day, 

And  shivered  in  the  rain, 
But  whistled  till  the  sun  came  out, 

Nor  thought  of  it  again. 

But  the  panorama  changes  soon  — 

The  trappers  disappear  — 
For  red  adventure  is  not  all 

That  makes  a  pioneer. 


22  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Methinks  I  see  a  cattle  team 
Crawl  up  the  Rocky's  crest, 

And  with  its  freight  a  wife  and  child 
And  the  future  of  the  West. 

O'er  alkali,  o'er  marsh  and  moor, 
And  roaring  canyons  deep, 

Mid  panther  screams  and  Indian"  yells 
Their  lonely  camp  they  keep. 

And  suns  they  rise  and  suns  they  set, 
But  westward  still  and  on, 

Till  the  road  fades  into  a  winding  trail, 
And  the  trail  itself  is  gone. 

Through  bristling  forest  dense  and  dim 
They  hew  a  path  to  the  sea, 

And  blaze  a  way  for  the  march  of  men 
And  the  millions  yet  to  be. 

For  civilization  followed  fast 
These  men  of  brawn  and  brain, 

And  o'er  their  trail  the  iron  horse 
Soon  galloped  with  his  train. 

Their  fathers  won  the  eastern  coast, 
With  its  barren  hills  and  ice, 

But  these  subdued  a  better  land— 
The  western  paradise. 

But  where  are  now  those  fearless  souls 

Of  fifty-two  and  three? 
Meek,  Nesmith,  Lee,  and  Applegate, 

And  a  score  of  their  degree  ? 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  23 

They  rode  the  gaunt,  black  horse  of  death 

Over  the  great  divide — 
They  scaled  the  purple  peaks  of  time 

And  camped  on  the  farther  side. 

And  only  a  remnant  now  remains 

Of  the  men  of  '53, 
But  the  work  they  did  will  stand  secure 

Till  time  has  ceased  to  be. 

Then  let  us  lift  our  hats  to  them, 

Xor  stop  the  falling  tear, 
And  pay  our  debt  of  gratitude 

To  the  honored  pioneer. 

*    *    » 

JUPITER'S  HORSES;  OR,  THE  MODERN 
LOCOMOTIVE 

How  often  at  night  I  have  stood  on  the  hill 
While  the  valley  below  was  sleeping  and  still, 
When,  with  rumble  and  roar  and  a  flame  on  the  sky, 
The  lightning  express  went  thundering  by. 

With  its  rhythmical  gallop,  and  click  of  the  steel, 
It  snorted  its  challenge  as  if  it  could  feel, 
And  I  said,  as  my  fancy  took  wings  at  the  sight, 
"Old  Jupiter's  horses  are  racing  to-night." 

But  he  slackens  his  pace  and  is  pausing  to  drink 
Like  the  dragon  himself  at  the  Stygian  brink — 
See  him  balking  and  backing  and  going  again, 
A  stallion  of  steel  too  noble  for  men. 


24  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Striking  fire  with  his  hoof,  and  with  fire  in  his  eye, 
Like  a  meteor  trailing  his  train  in  the  sky, 
With  a  demon's  endurance,  with  splendor  and  speed, 
He  must  be  a  deity's  charger  indeed. 

One  century's  fruitage !     How  narrow  the  span 
Since  spoke  into  being  by  magical  man 
These  monsters  have  followed  the  mystical  rail ! 
No  "Lamp  of  Aladdin"  can  equal  the  tale ! 

Compelled  by  the  spirit  possessing  the  age, 
They  chafed  in  New  England  like  bears  in  a  cage, 
And,  breaking  their  tethers,  exulting  and  free, 
And  leaping  the  Father  of  Waters  in  glee, 

They  charged  o'er  the  deserts  with  reckless  career, 
Leaving  panther  and  bison  afar  in  the  rear, 
They  plunged  through  Sierra's  perpetual  snow 
And  reached  the  proud  city  now  smoldering  low.1 

Then  northward  and  southward,  and  thither  and  back, 
Went  they,  rearing  and  tearing  and  crossing  their 

track, 

Now  swerving  and  curving  the  yawning  abyss — 
Did  e'er  a  Mazeppa  ride  charger  like  this? 

With  a  fury  imprisoned,  with  wings  of  the  wind, 
With  torrent  and  tempest  unheeded  behind, 
Undaunted  by  darkness  or  heat  of  the  day, 
Was  ever  Bucephalus  royal  as  they? 


is  was  written  just  after  the  San  Francisco  earthquake  and  fire. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  25 

Then  where  are  the  kings  of  the  turf  or  "the  trot" 
With  honors  like  Stephenson,  Evans,  and  Watt? 
Let  us  burnish  their  names  and  emblazon  them  bright 
While  Jupiter's  horses  are  charging  to-night! 

Now  their  number  is  legion.    With  passionate  mirth 
Hear  them  racing  and  chasing  all  over  the  earth  ! 
In  hamlet  and  city  they're  crowding  the  street, 
All  in  from  the  race  course,  and  panting  with  heat. 

And  here  where  the  Ilmpqua  caresses  the  sea, 
I  am  dreaming  to-night  how  soon  it  will  be 
When  the  snort  of  the  engine  shall  rouse  me  to  think 
"Old  Jupiter's  horses  are  coming  to  drink." 


26  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


THE  ALBANY  CHAUTATJQUA 

Come  among  the  birds  and  flowers, 
Linger  'neath  the  sylvan  bowers, 
Where  Nature  spends  her  magic  powers. 
And  blends  with  bliss  the  fleeting  hours, 
At  Chautauqua. 

Hear  the  wood  nymph's  wooing  call, 
Adown  the  wildwood's  vibrant  hall, 
By  mossy  banks  and  waterfall, 
With  ocean  breezes  kissing  all, 

At  Chautauqua. 

Where  muses  tune  their  sweetest  lyre, 
Where  Art  and  Beauty  both  conspire 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  27 

With  Northern  wit  and  Southern  fire, 
As  the  Western  spirit  rises  higher, 
At  Chautauqua. 

Let  no  carping  care  pursue  you; 
Let  the  limpid  Calapooia 
And  the  wild  Willamette  woo  you, 
Till  the  healing  waves  renew  you, 
At  Chautauqua. 


THE  PERIL  OF  JAPAN 
(Before  the  siege  of  Port  Arthur.) 

Arise!  thou  little  Second  Greece, 

Go  forth  and  win  your  star, 
For  lo,  your  horoscope  is  cast 

In  gruesome  clouds  of  war. 

Your  sires  have  wrought  in  bloody  sweat 

To  lengthen  out  your  day.-. 
Your  sons  have  sought  the  western  world 

And  studied  well  her  ways. 

Blend  art  with  ancient  valor  now, 

Nor  pause  you  for  the  night, 
Kur  see  !  with  bristling  fleet  appears 

The  mighty  Muscovite. 

1The  "Arctic  Bear's"  insatiate  greed 

Has  claimed  you  for  his  maw; 
He  scented  long  your  honeyed  isles, 
And  reaches  forth  his  paw  — 


'The  author's  figure  is  of  a  Russian  bear  coming  south  over  the  map  of 
Asia.     Bears  are  especially  fond  of  honey. 


28  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  one  would  seize  the  Union  Jack 

Down  by  the  Bengal  Bay — 
His  breath  would  strike  the  flag  of  France, 

And  send  it  home  to  stay. 

Let  China  bow  her  hoary  head 

If  ever  this  shall  be — 
For  next  he'd  lick  her  dripping  blood, 

And  rule  the  southern  sea. 

Let  Tenno's  spirit  come  again 

Like  Fuji-yama's  flame ! 
"Land  of  the  Rising  Sun,"  arise ! 

Add  luster  to  your  name  ! 

Thou  Guardian  of  the  Orient, 

Strike  now  in  sacred  scorn  ! 
Strike  now  the  blow  omnipotent 

For  which  your  race  was  born ! 


SILVER  CREEK  FALLS 

With  a  voice  of  many  thunders 
Like  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Queen  amidst  the  Cascade  wonders, 
Silver  Falls,  I  sing  for  thee ! 

Through  the  black  basaltic  columns 
Guarded  by  the  bristling  hills, 

Plunges  now  the  gathered  tumult 
Of  a  thousand  rushing  rills. 


= 

g  a 
^  « 

—     x 

- 


O    p 


30  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

In  the  torrid  sun  of  summer, 
Arched  with  rainbows  all  aglow, 

Pours  the  frantic,  foaming  river 
To  the  caldron  down  below. 

I  have  slept  beside  your  torrent, 
I  have  sported  in  your  spray, 

1  have  breathed  the  balmy  balsam 
Of  your  pines  at  break  of  day. 

Dizzy  heights  a  bed  of  blossom  ! 

Rugged  rocks  with  mosses  rare, 
Decked  with  nature's  lingerie — 

Trailing  tress  of  maidenhair. 

Hark !  a  quartet  in  the  distance 
Blend  their  voices  with  your  own, 

Are  they  muses  long  imprisoned 
Near  the  queen  of  beauty's  throne  ? 

Or  did  Neptune,  god  of  waters, 
And  the  Queen  of  Thunders  wed  ? 

Sprung  these  five  Titanic  daughters 
From  such  wild  Cascadian  bed? 

Tell  me  not  of  old  Niagara, 

Or  the  cataract  Ladore, 
Till  you've  seen  this  group  of  grandeur 

Lying  almost  at  your  door. 

Wild  the  leap  of  old  Multnomah, 
Sweet  the  Falls  of  Bridal  Veil, 

But  this  Garden  of  the  Graces 
Gathers  all  within  its  pale. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  31 

With  a  voice  of  many  thunders 

Like  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 
Queen  amid  the  magic  Avonders  — 

Silver  Creek,  sing  on  for  me  ! 


-r 


THE  LEWIS  AND  CLARK  TRAIL 

(Written  for  the  Lewis  and  Clark  Exposition  at  Portland, 
Oregon,  1905.) 

As  o'er  a  sea  untried  and  dark, 

Into  the  setting  sun, 
Columbus  drove  his  gallant  barque 

Until  a  world  was  won, 

So  into  the  west  two  hearts  as  strong 

As  ever  sat  under  a  sail 
Into  a  wilderness  deep  and  long 

Followed  an  unknown  "Trail." 


32  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

O'er  pristine  prairies  rolling  wide 

Where  roamed  the  buffalo, 
O'er  parching  sand  and  deep  divide 

Hard  by  eternal  snow, 

Past  wolves  and  wildmen  held  at  bay, 
And  cataracts  wild  and  grand, 

The  "Star  of  Empire"  led  the  way 
On  to  the  mystic  land. 

But  the  Trail  at  last  ran  into  the  tide 
That  washes  the  wonderful  West, 

Where  the  Oregon  pours  her  waters  wide 
On  the  "Peaceful  Ocean's"  breast. 

And  they  planted  there  the  standard  true 
That  waves  on  high  to-day— 

"They  builded  wiser  than  they  knew" 
As  they  blazed  the  rugged  way. 

For  lo !  a  caravan  in  white 

With  priceless  pilgrim  freight, 

Soon  crowd  the  path,  and  wondrous  sight, 
They  build  an  empire  great ! 

Along  the  Trail  so  wild  and  bleak 
The  harnessed  lightnings  play — 

And  hark !  I  hear  an  engine  shriek 
In  triumph  o'er  the  way. 

Now  see  them  come !    In  tiers,  on  tiers, 
They  throng  the  hill  and  vale, 

To  view  the  growth  of  a  hundred  years 
Along  the  ancient  Trail ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


33 


The  treasures  of  the  East  they  bring, 
E'en  from  the  fields  of  war, 

While  wireless  wizards  on  the  wing 
Bring  greetings  from  afar. 

Let  pa?ans  ring  from  "Golden  State" 
To  Yukon's  golden  shore ! 

The  world  is  waiting  at  our  gate — 
Throw  open  wide  the  door! 


•THEY   BUILDED   WISER   THAN    TIIKY    KXKW" 


34  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


AN  OREGON  DAWN 

On  the  tide  of  the  morning,  the  light 
Came  flooding  the  inlets  of  day, 

And  all  the  dark  rivers  of  night 
Were  burnished  with  heavenly  ray. 

Then  the  Angel  of  Light  swung  open 
The  glorious  gates  of  the  dawn, 

And  the  jubilant  choirs  of  creation  • 
Marched  into  the  day  and  marched  on. 


v     „     „ 


HARVEST  IN  UMATILLA 

Heigh-ho!  for  the  Oregon  highlands, 

That  Garden  of  Ceres  aglisten ! 
Climb  a  Blue  Mountain  summit  supernal ! 

Put  your  ear  to  the  ground  as  you  listen ! 
And  what  is  that  tremble  and  tramping? 

'Tis  a  score  and  more  thousand  of  feet— 
'Tis  an  army  of  harvester  horses — 

Umatilla  is  cutting  her  wheat. 

Hear  the  champing  and  tramping  and  neighing, 

The  buzz  and  the  hum  and  the  rattle ! 
0,  the  billowy  cereal  ocean 

Is  a  glorious  field  for  the  battle. 
Hear  the  whistle  and  song  of  the  drivers ! 

See  the  maidens  with  hurrying  feet ! 
Umatilla  is  threshing  in  earnest 

Her  five  million  bushels  of  wheat. 


35 


And  look  at  the  pyramids  rising, 

And  the  long  laden  trains  on  the  way!' 
Why,  for  each  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  children 

A  biscuit  is  reaped  in  a  day. 
Then  take  oil'  your  hats,  all  ye  rivals, 

And  cast  your  bouquets  at  her  feet, 
And  yell  like  the  "rooters"  in  college  — 

Umatilla  is  reaping  her  wheat! 


THE  APPLE  FAIE 

What  is  all  this  fuss  about? 
Trains  all  loaded  in  and  out, 
Blushing  fruit  and  blushing  maid  — 
Sauces,  jellies,  marmalade  — 
Pies  and  dumplings  scent  the  air  — 
Why,  it's  Oregon's  Apple  Fair  ! 

"Pyrus  Malus  King  shall  be," 
Shout  the  Profs,  from  0.  A.  C.— 
Till  every  apple  gets  in  style 
With  the  famous  "Billiken  smile." 
Balmy  Indian  summer  air  — 
All  aboard  for  the  Apple  Fair  ! 

See  the  beauties,  old  and  new  — 
Starks  and  Spitzens,  Baldwins,  too, 
Yellow  Xewtowns,  Kings,  and  Spies, 
Gloria  Mundis  Jumbo  size! 
Your  aunts  and  uncles  will  be  there, 
So  don't  you  miss  that  Apple  Fair  ! 


36  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Sturdy  stock  from  every  clan 

From  Halifax  to  Hindustan 

All  reach  perfection  in  the  sun 

Among  the  hills  of  Oregon — 

So  toss  that  headgear  in  the  air 

And  shout,  "Hurrah  for  the  Apple  Fair !" 


AUTUMN  0^  THE  UMPQUA 

The  sun  is  peeking  o'er  the  edge 
Of  yonder  blue  and  bristling  ledge, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  vagrant  night 
An  aureole  of  golden  light 
That  crowns  a  ridge  of  regal  firs, 
Whose  plumes  the  morning  zephyr  stirs. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  37 

The  wind  is  like  a  wounded  dove, 
Still  sobbing  soft  her  deathless  love — 
So  come  with  me  and  we  will  ride 
The  lordly  Vmpqua's  flowing  tide, 
For  none  e'er  dreamed  a  grander  dawn 
Than  greets  the  hills  of  Oregon. 

And  none  e'er  dreamed  a  sweeter  maid 
Than  blends  her  charm  with  sheen  and  shade, 
The  while  her  western  spell  she  weaves 
With  scent  of  wild  vanilla  leaves — 
Did  e'er  the  Danube  or  the  Don 
Bear  fairer  girls  than  Oregon? 

The  skulking  river  seems  to  hide 
Where  black  basaltic  bluffs  divide; 
Weird  Echo  Island  takes  our  shout 
And  sends  it  bounding  all  about, 
While  royal  salmon  sport  and  spring, 
Their  golden  armor  glistening. 

We  see  old  Bruin  grunt  and  sniff 
And  shuffle  off  behind  a  cliff; 
AVhile  by  yon  laurel's  ruddy  base, 
Unconscious  of  her  sylvan  grace, 
A  doe  is  feeding  with  her  fawn — 
And  this  is  life  in  Oregon  ! 

Now  hark  old  Xeptune's  rising  roar, 
And  mark  the  maples  on  the  shore — 
Did  not  some  Turner  from  the  skies 
Here  lavish  all  his  mystic  dyes 
To  paint  a  cosmic  masterpiece 
To  grace  a  paradisan  Greece? 


38  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Smooth  as  yon  coots  upon  the  keel, 
Our  launch  glides  onward,  as  we  feel 
The  charm  where  coast  and  country  kiss 
In  one  enchanted  land  of  bliss — 
Then  know  that  life  is  scarce  begun 
Until  you've  lived  in  Oregon. 

Talk  not  of  "melancholy  days," 
Of  "naked  woods"  and  "icy  ways," 
And  "dark  forebodings  of  the  snow"; 
Let  old  October  come  and  go, 
For  Spring  and  Summer  blend  in  one 
When  Autumn  comes  in  Oregon ! 


„     v     „ 


THE  FATED  BACE 

I  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Klickitat. 

In  an  Indian  camping  ground, 
Where  a  dusky  band  of  Yakimas 

Had  pitched  their  tents  around. 

They  could  see  the  bluffs  of  an  ancient  fort 

Where  their  fathers  had  bent  the  bow- 
Where  white  and  red  had  fought  and  bled 
In  the  battles  of  long  ago. 

They  could  see  the  white  man's  furrowed  fields 
Where  they  could  hunt  no  more, 

And  their  hearts  grew  cold  as  the  snowy  peaks 
That  dotted  the  landscape  o'er. 


"HE  SADLY  GAZED  ON  THE  BUSY  ROAD' 


40  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

They  sadly  gazed  011  the  busy  road 
Where  once  they  followed  the  trail, 

While  in  the  twilight  gleamed  the  spires 
Of  the  village  of  Goldendale. 

That  night  I  saw  them  move  their  camp, 

And  ride  with  solemn  tread 
As  if  they  were  chanting  a  requiem 

In  honor  of  their  dead. 

The  long  line  threaded  the  Simcoe  hills 
Where  now  they  are  forced  to  stay, 

And  only  the  dying  embers  showed 
Where  a  "nation"  camped  that  day. 

Like  phantoms  grim  were  the  willow  shades 
Where  the  path  ran  into  the  stream, 

And  I  saw  them  cross  it  one  by  one 
In  the  moonlight's  silver  gleam. 

And  this,  said  I,  is  an  emblem  true 

Of  all  their  fated  race — 
They  are  crossing  the  river  one  by  one 

While  the  white  man  takes  their  place. 

Thus  civilization  surges  on, 
Nor  waits  for  flesh  and  blood, 

And  those  who  cannot  stem  its  tide 
Must  sink  beneath  the  flood. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  41 


VICTORIA 

()  rock-ribbed  city  of  the  western  sea. 

Who  could  not  tune  his  lyre  in.  son*;  for  thee? 

With  solemn  castles  gazing  out  across  the  sea, 
With  grand  Olympics  smiling  hack  at  thee, 

You  float  in  Xipon's  soft  salubrious  hreeze, 
A  tropic  island  in  the  northern  seas, 

A  full-blown  rose  of  old  Victorian  days. 

And  loath  to  leave  your  cherished  mother's  ways. 

Enriched  with  all  the  century  can  give, 

You  still  take  time  to  think  and  feel  and  live. 

As  a  ripple  in  a  treasure-laden  stream 
Gathers    the    gold-dust    horn    through    shade    and 
gleam, 

So  thou  hast  sifted  well  the  flowing  tide 

Of  ruthless  Western  wealth  and  Eastern  pride. 

I  I »( »n  the  "Lion's"  mane  you  safely  cling 
Xor  fear  the  rustle  of  the  "Eagle's"  wing. 

0  portal  fair  to  Yukon's  oil  and  gold, 

Prize  well  the  envied  vantage  ground  you  hold ! 

0  seagirt  goddess  rich  in  mead  and  mine, 
Guard  well  "Britannia's  far-flung  battle  line!" 


42  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

JASOX  LEE 

A  cry  from  the  gloom  of  the  western  wilds ! 

A  pleading,  outstretched  hand  ! 
"0  who  will  give  us  the  white  man's  book, 

The  trail  to  the  spirit  land?" 
'Twas  the  death  wail  of  the  Indian  race, 

And  longer,  louder  grew, 
Till  the  winds  caught  up  the  weird  refrain 

And  echoed,  "Who— 0,  Who?" 

And  methinks  that  heaven  took  up  the  cry 

Around  the  glassy  sea, 
And  whispers  leaped  from  lip  to  lip — 

aWho  will  the  hero  be?" 
And  on  our  shore  the  angels  looked 

And  wept  in  sympathy, 


Till  God  said,  "Jason  Lee." 

Then  Freedom  cried  with  clarion  voice, 

"Where  is  the  soul  so  bold 
To  tame  yon  howling  wilderness 

With  its  buried  hope  and  gold? 
Who  will,  for  me,  unfurl  the  flag 

For  the  millions  yet  to  be  ?" 
And  Old  Glory  seemed  to  vibrate 

With  the  name  of  Jason  Lee. 

Again  the  voice  of  heaven  called, 

"0  who  will  go  for  me, 
And  consecrate  a  lonely  spot 

In  that  empire  by  the  sea, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  43 

Fur  a  -stately  Concord  of  the  West — 

A  Salem  yet  to  be  T 
And  Heroism  answered  back, 

"The  wife  of  Jasoii  Lee." 

Anon  a  temple  to  our  God 

A  r<  >se  ma  jestic'ly 
Beside  the  silent  camping  ground 

Where  both  sleep  peacefully. 
Among  a  galaxy  of  stars, 

Whose  shall  the  honor  be? 
And  some  said  this  and  some  said  that, 

But  God  said,  "Jason  Lee/"' 

In  Old  Willamette's  hall  of  fame, 

First  shall  her  founder  be — 
Ah !  now  methinks  I  see  him  stand 

On  heaven's  balcony — 
So  big  in  body,  heart,  and  brain, 

And  modest  dignity — 
The  prince  of  western  pioneers — 

The  stalwart  Jason  Lee. 


THE  OLD  BARLOW   IfOAD 

(Written  at  Government  Camp,  Mount  Hood,  August  15, 
1910.) 

Tread  softly,  boys,  'tis  sacred  dust, 

Though  only  a  mountain  trail, 
And  every  tree  is  a  monument, 

And  each  stone  a  coffin  nail. 


44  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

We  stand  on  the  famous  Barlow  Boad, 

Cut  deep  in  history, 
For  o'er  it  came  the  immigrant  train 

From  "the  States"  to  the  western  sea. 

This  mile  or  more  is  abandoned  now, 

As  a  better  route  was  found. 
No  modern  wheel  or  automobile 

Has  defiled  the  holy  ground. 

From  Sherer's  bridge  across  De  Chutes, 

Moved  many  a  famished  crew, 
Around  Mount  Hood,  down  Zigzag  Gulch 

To  the  town  of  Kevenue. 

Thence  onward  to  Willamette  Falls 

Slow  crept  the  caravans, 
Or  southward  to  Chemeckety 

Where  now  a  statehouse  stands. 

And  o'er  this  trail  for  centuries  gone 
Had  the  muffled  moccasin  passed, 

But  the  white  man  took  the  red  man's  road- 
And  his  wide  domain  at  last. 

Here  are  footprints,  too,  of  the  weary  feet 

Of  the  Indian  mother  or  maid, 
Who  bore  in  pain  her  merciless  load, 

And  her  merciless  lord  obeyed. 

So  the  dust  we  tread  is  eloquent  dust — 

See,  here  is  an  arrow  head, 
And  these  whispering  trees  are  telling  the  tale 

Of  the  battles  of  white  and  red. 


'WE    STAND    ON    THE    FAMOUS    BARLOW    ROAD 


46  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

There's  the  skull  of  an  ox  by  yonder  roeks, 

And  here  a  bit  of  leather — 
Relics,  perchance,  of  the  pioneers, 

Defying  wind  and  weather. 

That  cedar  root,  all  worn  and  torn, 

Is  a  legend  of  many  a  line ; 
It  was  written  there  in  human  blood 

By  the  wheels  of  "forty-nine." 

And  see !   This  bone  is  a  woman's  arm 
Unearthed  by  the  rains,  no  doubt. 

They  buried  her  here  beneath  the  road 
So  the  wolves  wouldn't  dig  her  out. 

And  yonder  slab,  rough-hewed  and  rude, 
Was  placed  by  a  woman's  hands; 

She  buried  her  husband  there,  they  say, 
Then  drove  on  o'er  the  sands. 

Alone,  she  chiseled  the  name  and  date — 
With  love  and  an  ax  'twas  done. 

Ah,  the  women  that  trod  the  Oregon  Trail 
Were  mothers  and  men  in  one ! 

And  to  journey  on,  what  a  lonesome  way 
For  her  and  her  little  flock ! 

And  every  camp  was  farther  away 
From  the  little  sacred  rock. 

And  here  they  swung  the  wagons  down 
With  rope  and  chain  and  stay, 

For  every  wheel  was  a  wheel  of  fate 
And  could  never  return  this  way — 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  47 

Or  better,  wheels  of  Progress  they, 

In  Civilization's  march, 
And  the  Zigzag  Pass  on  the  Barlow  Road 

Is  the  great  triumphal  arch. 

So  this  to  me  is  sacred  dust, 

Though  only  a  "Witches'  Trail," 
And  every  blaze  is  an  epitaph, 

And  each  clod  a  coffin  nail. 


YELLOWSTONE  PARK—  THE  SECOND 
PARADISE 

In  ages  past  when  Art  was  young, 
And  Music  had  not  found  her  tongue, 

Since  man  had  fallen  neath  the  curse, 

The  Maker  of  the  universe, 
In  love,  methinks,  conceived  to  plan 
Another  paradise  for  man. 

Exploring  angels  sought  afar 
To  find  a  site  where  nought  could  mar, 
And  high  upon  the  Rocky's  crest, 
Like  a  gate  to  heaven  for  the  West, 
They  found  a  mystic  land  unknown, 
Which  now  we  call  the  Yellowstone. 

'Twould  be  a  place  the  race  could  sense 

The  grandeur  of  Omnipotence; 

Where  through  the  ages,  hour  by  hour, 
Would  be  displayed  his  sovereign  power, 

While  every  tender  touch  of  love 

Would  woo  the  soul  to  things  above. 


48  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

All  heights,  all  depths,  all  heat,  all  cold 
Were  fashioned  in  a  mammoth  mold. 
Both  heaven  and  hades  tribute  paid 
When  this  new  paradise  was  made, 
For  God  in  nature  reigned  alone 
In  carving  out  the  Yellowstone. 

But,  as  the  hare  more  swiftness  feels 
Who  hears  the  hound  upon  his  heels, 
And  has  another  chance  to  live, 
Which  fair  incentives  could  not  give, 
So  God  commends  his  love  to  men 
By  danger  signals  now  and  then. 

Hence  all  the  hideousness  of  hell, 
With  lurid  light  and  noxious  smell, 
From  every  dark  and  dismal  shore, 
With  horrid  hiss  and  vengeful  roar 
Is  raging  like  a  living  thing 
From  fiery  pit  and  Stygian  spring. 

Great  caldrons  built  on  Titan  plan, 
Well  named  "The  Devil's  Frying  Pan," 
And  gushing  geysers  vent  their  wrath 
And  leave  a  brimstone  aftermath. 
^  But,  awe  and  fury  are  not  all 
That's  writ  on  sky  and  mountain  wall. 

For  Beauty  is  a  boon  that's  given 
To  bless  this  world,  as  well  as  heaven. 
:  Fair  angel  artists  sought  afar 
For  shade  and  sheen  from  every  star — 
For  every  rare  and  radiant  gem, 
To  deck  the  mountain's  diadem. 


'AND   GUSHING   GEYSERS  VENT   THEIR    WRATH 


50  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

The  cliffs  and  clouds  alike  were  kissed 
With  dyes  of  some  great  alchemist, 

While  sapphire  flame  and  burnished  gold 
Were  rolled  in  splendor,  fold  on  fold, 
To  arch  the  canyon's  yawning  deep, 
And  paint  the  lakes  that  lie  asleep. 

The  "Paint  Pots"  and  the  pools  are  here, 
The  "Easel  Lake"  and  gossamer, 

The  "Sleeping  Giant"  and  his  seat — 
An  artist's  studio  all  complete — 
The  God  of  Beauty  held  his  throne 
When  heaven  made  the  Yellowstone. 

Anon,  the  moisture-laden  breeze 
Bore  in  its  burden  from  the  seas, 
And  soon  a  river  leaped  in  play 
And  galloped  toward  the  gates  of  day, 
While  to  the  westward  hastened  one 
Where  in  the  ocean  falls  the  sun. 

But,  that  the  place  thus  set  apart 
Should  ever  keep  to  Nature's  heart, 
Old  warden  Winter  shuts  the  gate, 
And  white-robed  sentries  stand  in  state, 
While  silent  moons  they  come  and  go, 
Until  the  flowrets  pierce  the  snow. 

'Tis  paradise  for  beast  and  bird, 
Where  hunter's  gun  is  never  heard. 
Here  plays  the  antelope  and  fawn, 
The  eagle,  osprey,  and  the  swan; 
The  beaver  builds  his  house  in  peace, 
The  wapati  and  moose  increase. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  51 

And  here  converge  from  all  the  earth 
The  friends  of  truth,  the  knights  of  mirth. 

The  fainting  heart  and  laggard  brain 

Are  girded  for  their  task  again, 
For  God  in  nature  reigns  alone, 
Within  the  walls  of  Yellowstone. 


THE  SLEEPING  GIANT 

(This  unique  natural  curiosity  is  in  Northwestern  Wyo- 
ming, and  is  formed  by  a  strange  grouping  of  mountains.  It 
is  especially  vivid  and  imposing  from  Lake  Yellowstone.) 

0  for  some  language  from  on  high 
To  catch  the  spirit  of  the  sky 

In  which  this  monarch  sleeps ! 
Recumbent  on  his  rugged  throne, 
Where  summits  pierce  the  ether  zone 

He  crowns  the  beetling  steeps. 


52  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

His  white-capped  sentries  stand  around, 
As  if  by  some  unearthly  sound 

They  petrified  with  fear. 
His  altar  fires  still  smolder  low, 
His  fountains  leap  with  overflow 

In  royal  gardens  near. 

Was  he  some  prehistoric  man, 
Built  011  the  ancient  Aztec  plan 

To  rule  from  shore  to  shore? 
Or  Thor,  the  noisy  thunder  god, 
Put  fast  asleep  by  Morpheus'  rod 

And  left  for  evermore? 

In  bold  relief  against  the  sky, 

With  cliff -made  brow  and  heavy  eye, 

Upon  his  back  he  lies. 
The  spirit  of  the  West,  methinks, 
Incarnate  in  this  sleeping  sphinx, 

For  aeons  did  not  rise. 

With  biggest  dreams  his  soul  is  stirred, 
He  only  waits  his  Master's  word — 

The  clouds  are  flushed  with  dawn. 
But  half  awakened  to  his  power, 
He  gathers  vigor  for  his  hour, 

To  lead  the  nations  on. 

He  dwells  among  the  primal  things, 
And  save  the  swish  of  eagle's  wings, 

And  angry  Lightning's  tramp, 
Dull  Silence  reigns  about  his  head — 
A  hollow  stillness  draped  with  dread, 

Where  things  eternal  camp. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  53 

His  couch  is  veiled  with  mountain  mist, 
His  brow  is  by  the  morning  kissed, 

And  his  the  last  good-night. 
Above  the  petty  strifes  of  man, 
Where  Envy  smites,  and  keeps  who  can, 

He  faces  toward  the  light. 

How  like  our  race  that  cumbent  form  ! 
A  target  where  the  Titan  storm 

With  fiery  feet  has  trod! 
And  when  it  seemed  that  it  was  sleeping, 
An  age-long  vigil  it  was  keeping, 

Still  looking  up  to  God. 


ODE  TO  MOUNT  HOOD 
(Written  at  Mount  Hood,  August  14,  1910.) 

Author  of  music,  majesty,  and  might, 
Lift  me  to  nobler  heights  than  I  have  known  — 
Expand  my  soul,  breathe  bigness  in  my  words, 
For  might}7  Hood  demands  a  song  high-pitched 
Above  mere  Kipling  rhymes  and  common  things. 
Xo  puny  pipes  o'  Pan  play  here  on  reeds, 
But  Boreas,  whose  smile  the  rainbow  is, 
Sounds  forth,  his  deep-  voiced  organ  of  the  Xorth. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  proud  Cascades, 
I  drink  thy  beauty  as  the  gates  of  dawn 
Are  lifting  o'er  thy  gilded  glacier  fields. 
Was  heaven  stripped  of  all  her  gorgeous  dyes 
To  paint  this  rainbow  on  the  skies,  that  fills 
The  vast  horizon's  arch,  and  crowns  in  light 
Thy  solemn  silhouette  against  the  sky? 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  55 

What  cataclysm  reared  thy  mighty  form 

And  strewed  thy  fragments  for  a  hundred  miles? 

Does  old  ^Eolus,  fabled  King  of  Winds, 

Dwell  here,   "Steel's   Cliff"   his  brazen   sounding 

board, 

His  acolytes  the  harpies  of  the  storm? 
From  whence  this  curling  smoke  and  sulphur  fumes, 
And  why  this  heat  around  thy  ancient  throat? 
Will  Stygian  fury  some  day  spew  its  rage 
Anew  on  lurid  skies  and  leaping  hills? 
On  Cloud  Cap  Inn,  and  new  Pompeii's  Camps? 

No  "Alps  on  Alps"  beyond  thy  crest  arise. 
With  ermine  robe  and  Hermes'  fleecy  veil 
Thou  hast  the  morn's  first  kiss  and  last  good-night. 
Just  now  the  dove  of  peace  hangs  o'er  thy  head 
And  hovers  gently  in  the  sleepy  clouds, 
Which  pendant  hang  as  o'er  a  newborn  heaven — 
But  while  I  speak,  I  hear  the  rumbling  storm 
Like  chariots  o'er  these  hollow  fields  of  ice, 
And  heaven's  dome  is  etched  with  zigzag  light, 
And  frescoed  with  the  foam  that  breaks  around 
Thy  head — the  target  of  the  thunderbolt. 

Thy  lakes  and  caves  are  reservoirs  of  power, 
Thy  cliffs  and  canyons,  autographs  of  God. 
These  pinnacles  are  heaven-pointing  hands, 
These  jutting  ledges,  arabesques  divine. 
No  Pharaoh  bleaches  'neath  thy  pyramid— 
Xor  was  it  built  by  blood  of  goaded  serfs — 
The  Lord  alone  reigns  here — he  was,  and  is, 
And  is  to  be  thine  only  potentate. 


56  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


THE  INDIAN  DEATH  WAIL 

All  the  village  of  Rikawrus 

Is  a  pageant  of  mirth, 
As  a  band  of  Cheyenne  warriors, 

With  their  painted  shield  and  girth, 


Ride  and  chant  a  song  of  triumph, 
All  in  war  paints  bloody  red, 

With  a  crest  of  eagle  feathers 
Bristling  gayly  from  each  head. 

Hear  the  dance  and  savage  music — 

Roman  revel  gone  insane — 
Old  and  young  in  gaudy  trappings — 

Painted  demons  "raising  Cain." 

Scalps  and  trophies,  shields  and  banners 
Deck  the  wigwams  and  the  trees-^ 

Shouting  heralds  spread  the  tidings 
Of  the  recent  victories. 


Bonfires  glare  in  garish  glee, 
Ghoulish  shadows  farther  crawl, 

Till  a  silence  suddenly 

O'er  the  feasting  seems  to  fall. 

From  the  bleak  and  barren  mountain, 
Looming  grim  upon  the  plain, 

Comes  a  wail  upon  the  night  wind 
Like  a  desert  ghost  in  pain. 


I 


58  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Worse  than  wail  of  starving  panther, 
Dismal  as  from  doomed  souls, 

Louder,  longer,  wilder,  weirder, 
Wave  on  wave  the  anguish  rolls. 

They  are  poor,  defenseless  women — 
Women  wailing  for  their  dead — 

Hungry,  cold,  and  all  forsaken — 
Winter's  blast  upon  their  head. 

One  by  one  had  they  departed, 
When  a  runner  first  revealed 

That  a  husband,  son,  or  lover 
Had  been  left  upon  the  field. 

Lonely  Chip-pe-wy-an  Mountains 
Mock  the  cadence  of  their  cry — 

If  the  wolf -pack  soon  assembles 
They  will  neither  fight  nor  fly. 

Tell  me  not,  0  sordid  Saxon, 
That  an  Indian  cannot  feel — 

That  the  "font  of  his  affections 
Has  been  frozen  cold  as  steel." 

True,  he  has  been  dwarfed  and  hardened- 
Made  to  drink  life's  bitter  mead, 

Made  the  target  of  the  tempest, 
And  the  victim  of  our  greed. 

But,  Shoshone  or  Cheyenne, 
Sioux,  Nez  Perce,  Powhatan — 

Still  beneath  the  stoic  breast 
Beats  the  aching  heart  of  man. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  59 

THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  SKIES 

I  see  a  garden  in  the  skies, 

Fresh  with  celestial  showers — 
Is  it  some  mirage  of  paradise? 
Or  the  spirit  land  of  flowers? 
Whate'er  it  be, 
It  seems  to  me 
More  beautiful  than  curs'. 

Above  the  purple  hills  of  dawn 

A  giant  sunflower  peeps, 
And  when  his  yellow  disk  is  gone 
And  the  moon  her  \ovnge  keeps, 
She's  a  lily — 
Pale  and  chilly, 
On  her  a/ure  lake  she  sleeps. 

Yon  burnished  clouds  are  floral  banks 

On  the  grave  of  Yesterday — 
See  the  sable  nuns  in  broken  ranks 
File  down  the  path  to  pray, 
And  strew  the  night 
With  petals  white, 
Which  makes  the  "Milky  Way" ! 

A  comet  is  a  big  bouquet 

Trailed  headlong  in  a  race ; 
Each  star  a  white  anemone 
Emplanted  in  her  place — 
So  shy  and  pale, 
So  fair  and  frail, 
She  gives  the  garden  grace. 


6o 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


When  through  the  clouds  at  evening's  ebb, 

I  saw  those  twinkling  eyes, 
It  used  to  seem  a  diamond  web 
Where  sifted  gold-dust  lies, 
But  now  it  seems 
That  perfume  streams 
From  a  flower  bed  in  the  skies ! 


'OX  HER  AZURE  LAKE  SHE  SLEEPS 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  61 

ODE  TO  ASTOIMA 

On  Columbia's  broadened  breast 

At  the  Gateway  of  the  West 
Is  a  city  which  the  Muses  did  decree 

\Vas  to  sit  a  sylvan  queen 

On  her  terraced  hills  of  green 
While  she  listens  to  the  music  of  the  sea. 

Once  a  famous  financier 

With  a  prophet's  listful  ear 
Built  a  rustic  little  hamlet  on  the  shore. 

With  its  rugged  palisade 

In  the  gloomy  forest  shade, 
Methinks  that  I  can  see  it  as  of  yore. 

In  the  mists  of  early  dawn, 

In  the  century  agone, 
I  seem  to  hear  a  siren  as  it  sings : 

''Let  the  trapper  ply  his  trade, 

While  the  dusky  Clatsop  maid 
Looks  with  wonder  on  'the  ships  with  the  wings.' 

"Let  the  sportive  spotted  fawn 

Feed  upon  the  sylvan  lawn, 
But  mind  the  couchant  shadow  in  the  tree ! 

Let  the  mighty,  magic  river 

Mingle  with  the  mists  forever 
As  it's  wedded  to  the  waters  of  the  sea. 

"0  the  lonely,  nameless  shore 

Where  dumb  silence  evermore 
Is  but  deepened  by  the  sobbing  of  the  tide ! 

0  the  mute  and  muffled  sigh 

When  the  bloody  arrows  fly, 
And  a  scalp  is  brought  a-quiver  to  a  bride" ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  63 

Bait  the  mystery  and  maze 

Of  romantic  early  days 
Are  but  setting  for  the  centuries  before. 

There's  a  flush  upon  the  sky, 

Her  crowning  day  is  nigh, 
And  she  finds  herself  sitting  at  the  world's  front  door. 

Port  of  entry  potentate, 

In  an  empire  growing  great, 
Stretching  eastward  to  the  Rocky  Mountain's  crest  — 

Pioneer  of  pioneers, 

Gath'ring  treasure  with  the  years, 
Old  Astoria,  the  Brooklyn  of  the  West! 

Xot  an  isolated  post, 

But  a  city  she  shall  boast 
Where  the  ships  shall  ride  at  anchor  from  the  world. 

Firmly  fixed  by  Nature's  law 

On  the  path  to  Panama, 
Let  her  banners  to  the  breeze  be  unfurled. 

0  Astoria,  my  pride, 

On  Columbia's  heaving  tide, 
With  the  balmy  ocean  breath  on  your  breast, 

May  your  purpose  point  as  high 

As  your  cedars  in  the  sky, 
While  you  safely  guard  the  Gateway  of  the  West. 


THE  PATH  TO  PANAMA 

Bring  your  dredges,  Uncle  Sam, 
Now  they're  done  at  Gatun  Dam. 
Open  up  our  channel  mouth 
For  the  traffic  going  south, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  65 

Di.u'  it  deep  and  dig  it  wide. 
Make-  Invention  help  the  tide. 

For  the  husiest  plaee  v<>u  ever  saw 

Will  be  the  Path  to  Panama. 

Stand  upon  the  dock  with  me 
In  a  year  or  two  and  see ! 

'"Pilot,"  calls  some  Southern  Star, 

"How  much  water  on  the  bar?" 
"Kurty  J'eet  or  there  about, 
Enough  to  float  the  navy  out — 

With  all  the  water  you  can  draw. 

We're  on  the  Path  to  Panama.''' 

Upon  the  Path  to  Panama! 

Where  gulls  have  nuggets  in  their  craw — 

Where  Golden  Gates  are  swinging  free, 

And  doughnuts  ripen  on  the  tree — 
Where  fish  have  "silver  sides"  and  skies 
Are  painted  rich  with  "'Diamond  Dyes" — 

And  "swellest"  tides  without  a  flaw 

Will  sweep  the  Path  to  Panama. 

And  now's  the  time  we're  glad  to  be 
I  "poll  this  highway  of  the  sea. 

'Tis  Uncle  Samuel's  royal  road, 

Where  all  the  nations  will  "be  showed,'' 
For  the  biggest  fair  you  ever  saw 
Will  grace  the  Path  to  Panama. 

"So  bring  you  ma  and  bring  your  pa" 

Along  the  Path  to  Panama. 


66  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


OREGON  HOLLY 

(Why  should  not  Berberis  Aquifolium,  or  Oregon  Grape, 
become  to  our  Pacific  Coast  what  holly  is  to  England? 
Could  it  not  be  suggestive  of  all  the  sentiments  of  patriot- 
ism, home  and  religion,  and  especially  foster  veneration  for 
the  pioneer,  and  all  that  is  distinctively  Western  in  spirit?) 

As  holly  tells  of  feudal  days, 
Of  yuletide  feasts  and  laughter, 

So  thou,  the  pride  of  Oregon, 
Shall  trail  thy  glories  after. 

When  woodland  flowers  are  all  asleep 

And  hazel  wands  are  bare, 
You  reign  like  some  primeval  chief 

Who  oft  has  tented  there. 

Your  leaves  are  laundered  by  the  rain, 

And  glossed  by  winter's  wing 
To  garnish  festive  hall  and  home, 

And  the  temples  of  our  King. 

Hast  holly  sharper  spines  than  thou? 

Her  leaves  a  richer  hue? 
If  she  should  boast  of  berries  red, 

Boast  thou  of  berries  blue. 

And  if  perchance,  from  prestige  proud, 
She  does  not  grant  your  greatness,  . 

Then  take  this  arrow  and  atone 
For  any  charge  of  lateness: 

"O'er  every  sea  the  healed  have  sung 

The  virtues  of  my  root — 
Can  English  Mary's  famous  tree 

Make  bitters  from  its  foot?" 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  67 

Let  holly  ivign   in  Britain's  land 

And  Scotland  sing  of  heather; 
For  us,  the  grape  of  Oregon 

Has  both  their  charms  together. 

*    *    » 

BACK  TO  ALBANY 

A  bird  turned  loose  among  the  flowers,  } 

In  the  San  Diego  sun, 
Soon  sighed  to  see  the  gentle  showers, 

And  struck  for  Oregon — 
About  an  hour,  it  seems  to  me, 

Till  it  arrived  at  Albany. 

A  cat,  blindfolded  in  the  night 

Outside  the  college  door, 
Was  carried  in  a  box  car  tight 

A  thousand  miles  or  more — 
The  train  was  wrecked,  but  all  agree 

The  cat  showed  up  in  Albany. 

A  man  got  dry,  in  this  temperance  town, 

And  struck  for  a  faster  place — 
He  wandered  the  nation  up  and  down 

Till  his  purse  was  empty  space — 
Then  rode  a  "brake"  from  Tennessee, 

To  get  back  home  to  Albany. 

A  native  here  once  died,  they  say, 

And  went  to  Paradise, 
He  viewed  it  o'er  in  a  listless  way, 

With  a  look  of  sad  surprise — 
Then  formed  a  club  and  prayed  to  be 

Sent  back  to  boost  for  Albany. 


68  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


THE  WESTWARD  MARCH 

PRELUDE 

Beside  some  lost  Alaskan  lake, 
The  Plover  born  in  Spring; 

Ere  rising  for  his  southward  flight, 
Before  the  Winter  King, 

First  circles  round  his  native  ground 
To  train  his  tender  wing. 

The  lake  is  all  the  world  to  him, 

The  world  itself  a  dream; 
But  instinct  paints  within  his  breast 

Some  placid  southern  stream; 
And  braver  grown,  he  cleaves  the  zone, 

In  Autumn's  glint  and  gleam. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  69 

With  kindling  eye  and  pinion  strong, 

At  league  on  league  laughs  he; 
The  mountain  air  is  wine  to  him, 

And  wine  the  heaving  sea ; 
Until  the  Southland  of  his  dream 

Becomes  reality. 

So,  modestly,  0  Muse  of  mine, 

Unfold  thy  wings  for  me, 
And  fed  by  ozone  from  on  high, 

Emboldened  thou  shalt  be. 
And  Comrade  true,  whoe'er  thou  art, 

Lend  us  thy  company. 

The  voyage  now  for  you  and  me 

Is  still  a  way  unknown, 
As  westward  round  the  globe  we  fly, 

In  pathways  all  our  own; 
Then  shrink  not  at  the  Alpine  blast, 

Or  at  the  ocean's  moan  ! 

THE   DEPARTURE 

As  fairy  Sleep  her  gos'mer  wove 

Across  my  weary  brain, 
Methought  I  saw  an  angel  form, 

Come  flying  o'er  the  main, 
And  pause  upon  my  sleeping  porch, 

And  shake  the  dripping  rain. 

She  gently  touched  me  on  the  brow, 

And  whispered  earnestly: 
"Wouldst  read  the  record  of  your  race? 

>  Arise  and  fly  with 'me — 
The  earth  is  all  ablaze  with  light, 

And  man  too  blind  to  see !" 


70  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

I  know  not  how  I  found  my  wings, 

I  only  know  I  flew — 
'Twas  easy  as  the  zephyr's  wing, 

That  sweeps  the  morning  dew. 
My  strange  companion  spoke  again, 

As  near  my  side  he  drew : 

"Progressus  is  my  earthly  name — 

Impulse  I  never  lack; 
But  ever  onward  keep  my  course, 

Across  the  zodiac." 
He  touched  my  eyes  and  bid  me  look 

Along  Earth's  backward  track. 

A  flash !    A  strange  mysterious  light ! 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  look. 
As  mists  were  rolled  in  heaps  of  gold 

While  Morn  her  tresses  shook, 
I  saw  the  centuries  unfold, 

As  plain  as  any  book. 

THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  BORN 

Behold  a  Pilgrim,  staff  in  hand, 
With  God  alone  his  guest ; 

He  walks  by  faith  the  desert  waste, 
The  Promised  Land  his  quest; 

He  turns  his  back  on  ancient  Ur — 
'Tis  Abram  going  West ! 

The  shifting  ages  onward  march 
In  stately  steps  sublime ; 

I  see  three  Wise  Men  pass  in  view, 
Their  camel  bells  a-chime, 

And  in  their  hearts  I  read  the  quest 
Of  the  knighthood  of  all  time. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  71 

4Upon  all  pioneers  of  Truth 

Their  mantles  fall  anon. 
The  world's  long  night  has  waned  at  last. 

The  East  is  streaked  with  dawn; 
A  star  hangs  over  Bethlehem, 

And  westward  beckons  on. 

FOUR  FAMOUS  SEAS 

Thus  westward  ever  leads  the  star 

Of  human  destinies, 
And  sheds  its  fairest  radiance 

Around  four  famous  seas; 
And  each  is  greater  than  the  last, 

Like  God's  divine  decrees. 

And  first  we  see  fair  Galilee 

Where  Jesus  walked  and  talked, 

Dispensing  Balm  of  Gilead 
AVhere  sin  and  sorrow  stalked, 

And  saving  sailors  blanched  with  fear 
While  in  the  storm  they  rocked. 

But  Jordan's  hills  cannot  enchain 

The  Life  divinely  great. 
Behold !   He  speaks !    Creation  moves ! 

The  nations  march  in  state ! 
Jerusalem  rejects  her  Lord — 

"Her  house  is  desolate." 

Her  treasure  stores  are  moved  to  Eonie, 

Like  honey  moved  by  bees; 
The  restless  spirit  is  released, 

And  seeks  for  larger  seas, 
Till  Tiber's  triremes  press  beyond 

The  Gates  of  Hercules. 


72  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

The  Levant  soon  is  left  behind 

For  a  wilder,  wider  sea; 
The  human  current  pours  across 

Old  Gaul  to  Brittany, 
And  all  the  region  throbs  with  life 

From  Cork  to  Zuyder  Zee. 

The  nations  catch  the  Wanderlust ; 

It  burns  in  every  vein ; 
'Tis  "Westward  ho,  with  a  rumbelo 

And  hurrah  for  the  Spanish  Main" ; 
And  the  prow  of  Progress,  westward  bent, 

Shall  ne'er  turn  back  again. 

I  hear  the  flap  of  the  salty  sail, 
And  the  shout  of  the  gallant  tars, 

As  around  the  great  Atlantic's  rim 
They  march  like  Sons  of  Mars, 

Until  upon  the  western  world 
They  plant  a  flag  of  stars. 

Then  caravans  of  pioneers 

Pushed  westward  still  and  on, 

Till  the  path  ran  into  an  Indian  trail 
And  the  trail  itself  was  gone ! 

They  thought  they  saw  the  setting  sun — 
'Twas  only  early  dawn. 

The  Star  of  Empire  did  not  set, 

E'en  at  Pacific's  brink ; 
It  blazed  a  chain  of  light  across, 

Each  Isle  a  golden  link, 
Till  drowsy  Nippon's  startled  hosts 

At  living  fountains  drink. 


74  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

The  king  of  oceans  leashed  at  last ! 

And  here  shall  heaven  behold 
The  grandest  drama  of  all  time 

Its  mighty  role  unfold; 
And  here  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 

Shall  pour  their  filtered  gold. 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  FUTURH 

Is  time  no  more,  0  Pilot  mine  ? 

"  'Tis  but  begun,"  quoth  he, 
"A  thousand  centuries  with  God 

Are  but  as  yesterday"- 
And  cycles  rolled  like  .dust  of  gold 

Above  a  silver  sea. 

The  great  processional  moved  on 
Across  the  gulf  of  years; 

They  scaled  the  walls  of  Prejudice, 
And  sailed  the  sea  of  Fears; 

They  left  a  streak  of  light  and  love 
Where  all  was  blood  and  tears. 

And  in  the  vision  I  could  see 
No  clash  of  race  or  tongue — 

No  discord  in  the  marching  step, 
Or  in  the  song  they  sung, 

But  with  the  stride  of  victory 
Around  the  earth  they  swung. 

CONCLUSION 

Mine  eyes  were  opened  then  to  see 

My  messenger  so  meek. 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  was  he — 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  75 

I  bowed  to  hear  him  speak : 
"God  is  himself  the  Holy  Grail 
The  nations  blindly  seek." 

Each  renaissance  the  world  has  known 

AYns  born  at  his  behest; 
Brave  Progress  wears  his  symbol  true 

Upon  a  valiant  crest; 
Disguised,  God  leads  the  column  still 

In  the  spirit  of  the  AVest. 

The  world  is  all  ablaze  with  light, 

But  man's  too  blind  to  see. 
"And  East  is  East  and  AVest  is  AVcst." 

But  one  the  twain  shall  be, 
When  the  peace  of  God  shall  fill  the  earth 

As  the  waters  fill  the  sea ! 


STILL  BORE  ALOFT  THE  BANNER  BRIGHT, 
WHILE  THUNDER  CLOUDS  WERE  RIVEN' 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  77 


A   SOXG  FOE  INDEPENDENCE  DAY 

Arise  and  shout,  ye  native  sons! 

And  sing,  ye  daughters  fair ! 
Your  natal  sun  ascends  the  East 

And  rides  in  glory  there. 
And  in  the  sky  methinks  I  see 

A  gay  mirage  of  light 
Reflected  from  a  million  flags 

With  stars  emblazoned  bright. 

And  let  the  eagle  scream  her  joy 

Who.  through  the  fateful  years 
When  war  baptized  the  land  with  blood 

And  washed  it  with  its  tears, 
Still  bore  aloft  the  banner  bright, 

While  thunder  clouds  were  riven, 
Until  it  caught  the  falling  stars 

From  heaven  in  tribute  given. 

And  shout !    Ye  millions  foreign-born, 

Who  sought  this  western  world 
To  pluck  fair  Freedom's  rarest  flowers 

And  keep  her  flag  unfurled. 
And  let  the  echoes  roll  and  roll, 

In  a  ravishing  refrain, 
From  sweet  magnolias  of  the  South 

To  princely  pines  of  Maine. 

Let  Yukon's  golden  trumpet  sound, 

And  bells  of  freedom  ring 
From  every  isle  that  nestles  now 

Beneath  the  eagle's  wing. 


78  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Let  cascades  leap,  and  geysers  play, 
And  oceans  roar  their  glee, 

Till  a  tidal  wave  of  liberty 
Shall  roll  from  sea  to  sea  ! 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  FLEET 
("There  go  the  Ships."—  David.) 

In  a  long  majestic  line  against  the  sky 
I  see  the  massive  squadron  marching  by  — 
Great  bristling  palaces  of  triple  steel, 
But  riding  smooth  as  coots  upon  the  keel. 

Each  of  the  score,  a  fortress  all  complete, 
Could  hide  old  Jason's  Argonauts  and  fleet. 
Ten  thousand  men  they  bear,  with  shot  and  shell 
Enough  to  storm  old  Satan's  citadel. 

And  see  the  clouds  from  vulcan  chimneys  rolled  ! 
A  mountain  chain  in  ebony  and  gold, 
That  floats  as  graceful  on  the  lingering  dawn 
As  tawny  tresses  of  an  Amazon. 

Green  forests  wave  a  welcome  to  our  home, 
And  eagles  scream  from  old  Sierra's  dome. 
Let  Shasta  swing  the  Golden  Gate  and  smile, 
While  Lick1  shall  flash  the  news  to  Luzon's  Isle! 

For  old  Balboa's  ocean  never  bore 
A  pageant  half  so  grand  as  this  before; 
A  thousand  centuries  she  had  to  wait 
To  see  Columbia's  fleet  march  by  in  state. 


'The  Lick  Observatory,  California. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  79 

Sail  on!  yc  proud  policemen  of  the  deep, 
While  safely  now  Pacific  cities  sleep. 
Sail  on  !  Sail  on !  till  navies  sail  no  more — 
Till  the  dove  of  Peace  shall  reign  on  every  shore. 

r  *  * 

THE  CHRIST  OF  ARGENTINE 

(In  1898,  war  between  Chile  and  Argentine  having  been 
averted  by  arbitration,  a  bronze  statue  of  Christ  was  erected 
on  the  very  summit  of  the  Andes,  on  the  disputed  boundary 
line,  as  a  monument  of  perpetual  peace.) 

0,  blood-red  races,  lift  your  eyes 

Toward  the  Southern  Cross ! 
Two  valiant  rivals  rise  above 

The  war  clouds'  direful  loss. 

And  these  the  lands  that  once  were  torn 

By  the  bloody  Almagro — 
Where  freedom  followed  Bolivar 

A  hundred  years  ago ! 

How  oft  they  trod  the  crimson  path 

The  race  itself  hath  trod, 
And  trampled  on  the  flower  of  Peace, 

That  sacred  flower  of  God. 

But  now  on  Andes'  dazzling  height, 
The  earth  and  heaven  between, 

They  lift  the  nations'  arbiter — 
The  Christ  of  Argentine! 

Then  come,  thou  sturdy  Southern  sons, 

Receive  thou  each  a  star ! 
A  nobler  coronet  you've  won 

Than  e'er  was  won  in  war. 


8o  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Your  nitrate  beds  and  sulphur  mines 
That  fed  the  fumes  of  hell, 

Shall  hurl  a  thousand  blessings  now, 
Instead  of  shot  and  shell. 

And  bleeding  Mercy,  lift  thy  head  ! 

The  race  will  yet  be  free  ! 
The  Christ  of  Peace  has  been  enthroned 

Where  all  the  world  can  see. 

Grim  prophet  of  the  Golden  Dawn, 

Majestic  and  serene, 
The  snowy  peak  thy  pedestal, 

Thou  Christ  of  Argentine  ! 

Let  fair  Aurora  Australis 

Use  all  her  magic  light 
To  paint  a  halo  o'er  thy  head 

On  winter's  silent  night. 

Then  flash  a  signal  to  The  Hague, 
And  one  to  heaven  be  hurled; 

"The  parliament  of  man  appears, 
The  federated  world  !" 

Forever  hold  thy  regal  throne, 
The  earth  and  heaven  between, 

Till  all  the  tribes  have  joined  their  hands 
With  Christ  of  Argentine! 


HYMN  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Lift  your  eyes  to  yonder  city 
On  the  placid  plains  of  Peace  ! 

See  the  human  river  flowing 

In  a  stream  that  does  not  cease  ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  81 

'Tis  "the  river  that  makes  happy 

The  city  of  our  God/' 
Whore  the  priceless  blood  of  freedom 

Never  stains  the  sacred  sod. 

Those  the  royal  knights  and  noble 
\\l\o  once  died  to  keep  their  tryst 

As  they  bound  their  country's  colors 
Hound  the  banner  of  their  Christ. 

See  them  passing  through  the  portals ! 

See  the  epaulets  they  wear ! 
Kindred  spirits,  brave  immortals, 

For  the  hero's  home  so  fair. 

See  the  scarred  and  halting  remnant 

Who  their  Captain's  call  await! 
1 'a  in  fully  the  white  procession 

Presses  upward  to  the  gate. 

But  the  ranks  are  ever  filling 

With  the  souls  who  dare  to  die 
For  their  faith  in  God  and  country 

And  a  holy  purpose  high. 

Maids  and  mothers  still  are  lifted 

In  that  sublimated  love 
Where  they  live  on  lost  caresses 

And  the  treasured  hopes  above. 

Still  in  tears  they  bid  their  warriors, 

"Go  and  battle  for  the  right," 
While  they  brave  life's  long  nightwatches 

That  the  land  may  have  the  light. 


82  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  recruits  will  e'er  be  ready 
For  the  battles  yet  to  be, 

Till  a  flag  of  truce  is  lifted 
Over  every  land  and  sea. 


MENTAL  HORIZONS 

I.  Mr.   Smallman  —  Selfishness. 

With  the  markets  his  spirits  rise  and  fall, 
His  sympathy  stops  with  stomach  wall. 

He  would  pull  the  world  in  his  little  shell, 

Nor  glance  to  see  who  stood  or  fell. 
Both  church  and  charity  plead  in  vain, 
And  a  school  tax  simply  raises  Cain. 

But  thanks  to  nature,  few  survive, 

Hatched  in  this  Lilliputian  hive. 

II.  Mr.  Booster  —  Civic  Pride. 

His  interest  leaps  to  the  city  line  — 

"The  civic  weal,"  he  cries,  "is  mine," 

And  I  cheer  him  on  with  a  loud,  "Amen  !" 
But  listen  a  moment,  he's  shouting  again— 

"No  neighbor  town  is  worth  a  cent  — 

They  all  are  grafters  —  after  rent  — 

'The  coming  London,'  'the  Western  Hub'— 
But  the  spokes  are  short  —  'aye,  there's  the  rub.' 

He  tries  to  boost  his  little  town 

By  knocking  other  boosters  down. 

III.  Mr.  Wholecoast  —  The  Western  Spirit. 

But  a  larger  soul  rides  in  the  list, 
And  swings  a  lariat  in  his  fist  — 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  83 

('Tis  only  a  habit  from  earlier  date, 
For  now  IK>  is  dealing  in  real  estate)  — 

And  he  cries,  "The  West !  The  wild,  wide  West ! 

From  Xome  to  Frisco,  the  last  and  best!" 
It  tingles  my  blood  like  a  veteran's  gun, 
And  I  cheer  for  the  laud  of  the  setting  sun. 

IV.  Colonel   Spreadeagle — Patriotism. 

But  I  hear  the  tramp  of  a  marching  host; 
Then  look  beyond  our  far-flung  coast 

As  our  spangled  flag  goes  floating  by, 

And  freedom's  shout  ascends  the  sky; 
"America"  we  proudly  sing, 
And  the  orator  bears  us  on  the  wing: 

"No  Kast.  or  West,  no  North,  or  South, 

For  the  nation  bought  at  the  cannon's  mouth!" 

V.  Professor  Whitepride — Race  Prejudice. 

Anon  approaches  a  critical  sage, 

I'n rolling  the  record  from  age  to  age, 
And  cries  in  a  cold  and  cynical  whine, 
"My  brotherhood  stops  with  the  color  line — 

The  Anglo-Saxon  race  for  me — 

The  race  that  was  and  is  to  be; 

Down  with  the  rest,  a  mongrel  herd, 
Whether  Jap  or  German,  Swede  or  Kurd !" 

VI.  Brother  Bigheart — Christianity. 

The  creed  I  hold  is  too  divine 
To  be  walled  in  by  a  color  line. 

I  praise  the  Lord  for  a  humble  place 

In  the  mighty  Anglo-Saxon  race. 


84  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

All  circles  of  loyalty  I  prize, 

But  a  vaster  vision  greets  my  eyes. 

I  shout  for  the  East,  I  shout  for  the  West  — 

I  shout  for  our  nation  God  has  blest, 
But  my  horizon  is  the  race  — 
Its  radius  great  as  God's  own  grace. 

From  my  heart's  embrace  I  let  none  go, 

Whether  man  in  the  mansion,  or  "man  with  the  hoe"- 
Hurrah  for  humanity's  rich,  red  blood, 

That  throbs  its  way  to  the  throne  of  God. 


THE  EAGLE  RIDE;  OR,  SEE  FIRST  THY 
NATIVE  LAND 

"The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 

Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and  fall, 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 
Laugh  in  the  sun  has  seen  them  all." 

I 
The  bell  tolled  "Ten"  ;  then  sang  "Eleven"  in  glee 

And  yet  I  mused.    Then  rising  restlessly 
I  gazed  across  the  'luring  moonlit  sea 

Where  siren  voices  ever  call. 
I  held  a  "Tourist  Guide"  from  lands  afar, 
Adorned  with  Alpine  staff  and  jaunting  car  — 
"I'll  see  earth's  wonderland,"  I  told  a  star, 

"From  Hammerfest  to  Aspinwall." 

II 

The  "Wanderlust"  still  gnawing  at  my  mind, 
Upon  my  couch  I  carelessly  reclined 
And  slept.     But  suddenly  a  bird  unkind, 
More  weird  than  ever  haunted  Poe, 


A  BIRD   .    .    .    MORE  WEIRD  THAX   EVER   HAUXTED  POE 


86  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

With  flapping  wing,  against  the  window  pressed — 
Then  bursting  through,  the  wild,  uncanny  guest 
Drew  near,  "Old  Glory"  floating  from  his  crest, 
His  tawny  feathers  flecked  with  snow. 

Ill 

Erect,  defiant,  like  an  outraged  king 
He  stood,  as  if  a  challenge  he  would  bring, 
And  execute  with  cruel  threat* ning  wing, 

Rude  blood-stained  claws  and  Roman  beak. 
His  eye  like  liquid  fire  upon  me  gleamed, 
And  with  the  same  imperial  pose  he  screamed, 
"See  first  thy  native  land,"  while  proudly  streamed 

His  banner  with  those  words  in  Greek. 

IV 

One  "solar  plexus"  then  I  seemed  to  be — 

The  earth  spun  round  with  such  rapidity 

That  Stars  and  Stripes  was  all  that  I  could  see. 

But,  lo !  at  length  I  seemed  to  glide 
Far  inland  from  my  cot  beside  the  main, 
O'er  seas  of  evergreen,  till  from  the  plain 
I  saw  Multnomah's  cascades  leap  in  vain 

And  tumble  in  Columbia's  tide. 

V 

But  towering  specter-like  above  the  scene, 

Her  glacier  fields  the  earth  and  heaven  between, 

We  spied  Mount  Hood,  enthroned  as  Western  Queen, 

And  near  her  stood  her  waiting  maids, 
The  Sisters  Three,  all  sweet  in  gowns  of  white. 
But  northward  now  my  escort  took  his  flight 
Above  Bach's  fabled  "Bridge" — uncanny  sight 

Of  wild  romance  and  Indian  shades. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  87 

VI 

Soon  Puget's  waters  in  the  moonlight  glare — 
A  sea  ensnaiied  among  the  mountains  there, 
It  lay  a-dreaming  of  the  Yukon  Fair, 

Earth's  Mecca  for  the  coming  hour — 
A  world  of  beauty  cast  in  magic  mold ! 
Arena  for  the  races  young  and  old, 
Where  Eastern  gem  shall  vie  with  Western  gold 

For  world  supremacy  and  power ! 

VII 

The  pale  Olympics  caught  Boreas'  beam, 
And  like  a  line  of  turbaned  gods,  they  seem 
To  throw  this  legend  on  the  night's  wild  dream : 

"See  fair  Columbia  first  of  all." 
Soon  Walla  Walla's  waving  wheat  I  saw, 
Then  Yellowstone's  enchanted  ground,  in  awe 
I  viewed,  and  heard  earth's  hungry,  hissing  maw 

Belch  forth  Plutonian  rage,  and  fall. 

VIII 

Old  Faithful  played  "America,"  I  know, 
And  e'en  the  bear  and  elk  and  buffalo 
All  seemed  to  snort  their  protest,  ere  I  go 

Abroad  in  search  of  scenery. 
And  burnt  in  living  letters  on  the  flag 
That  backward  bent  like  horns  of  flying  stag, 
And  echoing  from  the  beetling  mountain  crag 

And  borne  by  blizzards  to  the  sea, 

IX 

I  heard  the  same  imperious  command: 

"See  first — see  first — thine  own — thy  native  land"  ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  89 

It  rose  and  rolled  like  some  celestial  band 
O'er  inland  seas  and  sweeping  plain — 

O'er  Northern  pines,  and  sighing  cypress  trees 

Where  freedmen  chanted  it  upon  the  breeze, 

Till  old  Xiag'ra.  striking  all  her  keys, 
lioared  forth  the  same  sublime  refrain. 


X 

Above  this  liquid  tempest,  wheeling  wild, 

My  winged  steed  disported  like  a  child 

And  shrieked:  "Can  Rhine  or  lihone,  or  Poe  so  mild 

Exhibit  one  Niag'ra  Falls?" 
But  eastward  blown  by  some  tremendous  gust, 
\\V  looked  on  marble  pile  and  noble  bust 
Where  stately  elms  weep  over  Concord's  dust — 

Our  own  Westminster's  classic  halls. 

XI 

With  southward  sweep  o'er  many  a  hero's  tomb, 
We  caught  the  breath  of  "Sweet  Magnolias'  bloom," 
And  saw  the  Everglades  awake  from  gloom 

To  burnish  bright  their  southern  star. 
But  seized  by  restless  romance  of  the  West, 
O'er  Houston's  far-flung  plains  he  pushed  his  breast — 
Before  "The  Holy  Cross"  he  bowed  his  crest, 

And  lightnings  flashed  the  scene  afar. 

XII 

Old  "Eagle  City"  first  his  homage  drew, 
Then  "Garden  of  the  Gods"  and  "Manitou," 
And  up  the  spiral  road  of  Pike  he  flew — 
That  conquered  monarch  of  the  air — 


go  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  thrilled  by  kindred  taste  in  building  homes, 
He  flapped  his  pinions  o'er  the  cliff-built  domes 
Where  Toltec  tribes  have  left  their  sphinxine  gnomes 

To  guard  their  ancient  glory  there. 

• 

XIII 

Low  swooping  where  the  Colorado  curled, 

With  dipping  wing,  a  hundred  leagues  he  whirled 

Adown  the  one  great  canyon  of  the  world. 

My  heart  was  wild  with  native  pride ! 
Six  thousand  feet  below  the  wond'ring  sky ! 
Six  thousand  feet  of  terraces  on  high ! 
As  if  by  Titans  plowed  in  years  gone  by, 

The  earth's  bare  breast  lay  open  wide. 

XIV 

But  soon  "The  City  of  the  Angels"  shone — 
Where  nature,  art,  and  gold  conspire  in  one 
To  fuse  the  fairest  gem  the  world  has  known — 

One  wilderness  of  wealth  and  flowers. 
The  Golden  Gate  still  guarded  bay  and  brine, 
Her  goddess  radiant  from  her  vulcan  shrine, 
And  over  orange  grove  and  mead  and  mine 

We  swept,  where  King  Sequoi  towers. 

XV 

Past  wild  Yosemite's  gorge  my  bird  sped  on- 
Old  Shasta,  like  a  white  mirage  was  gone, 
And  Crater  Lake  lay  smiling  at  the  dawn 

That  crept  across  volcanic  sand. 
I  next  expected  Yukon's  golden  shore, 
But  heard  fair  Ban  don's  breakers  roar 
And  mingle  with  a  parting  cry  above  my  door— 

"See  first  of  all  thy  native  land," 


92  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


FATHER  HUCKLEBERRY  AND  THE 
AEROPLANE 

Well,  'Mandy,  I  got  home  alive, 
But  it's  Providence,  I  guess, 

For  Baldy  run  the  last  two  miles 
Like  the  "Limited  Express." 

I  knew  he  seemed  to  feel  his  oats, 
And  still  could  jump  a  fence, 

But  I  supposed  his  fourteen  years 
Had  given  him  some  sense. 

He  got  his  Arab  ginger  up 

At  Mulkey's  water  trough, 
And  he's  never  liked  that  motor  car 

Since  they  took  the  horses  off. 

And  then  the  wheels  and  auto-beels 
Were  a-paintin'  up  the  town, 

Till  when  I  crossed  them  depot  tracks 
I  couldn't  hold  him  down. 

I  had  that  anxious  feelin', 
Like  the  dove  in  Noah's  ark, 

But  I  seemed  to  keep  my  bearin' 
Till  I  passed  that  Goltra  Park. 

When  suddently  I  heard  a  noise 
That  nearly  struck  me  blind, 

And  saw  a  big  new-fangled  thing 
With  a  whirl-a-gig  behind. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  93 

'Twas  like  a  Salem  Easter  hat, 
With  its  double  deck  and  riggin', 

And  its  yards  of  wire  and  canvas 
All  a-jumpin'  and  a-jiggin'. 

And  settin'  on  the  runnin'  gear 

A-trailin'  o'er  the  trees, 
Was  a  man  a-ridin'  on  it 

As  happy  as  you  please. 

I  thought  some  "Open  River"  craft 

Had  blown  up  from  .resistance, 
And  tried  a-noatin'  overland 

To  shorten  up  the  distance. 

It  was  puffin'  at  its  engine, 

And  a-flappin'  of  its  wings, 
Like  Old  Nick  himself  was  flyin'— 

And  a  lot  o'  other  things. 

Then  it  kind  o'  dawned  upon  me, 
Since  it  didn't  touch  the  ground, 

It  must  be  Burkhart's  air  machine, 
A-aviatin'  'round. 

Of  course,  from  force  of  habit, 

I  pulled  and  hollered,  Whoa! 
But  it  only  made  him  hump  himself, 

And  you  ought  to  see  him  go ! 

The  buckboard  tetered  back  and  forth 

On  a  single  wheel  or  two, 
And  only  hit  the  highest  bumps, 

Like  the  scorchin'  autos  do. 


94 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


His  tail  streamed  like  the  comet's  tail, 
His  ears  were  laid  down  tight — 

Why,  no  one  needs  an  air  machine 
When  Baldy  gets  scared  right. 

So  you  can  have  Darius  Green, 
If  you  keep  him  out  the  road, 

But  I  prefer  the  good  old  ground, 
And  a  little  bigger  load. 


FATHER  HUCKLEBERRY  AT  SEATTLE 

Well,  I'm  takin'  in  Seattle, 
As  the  postal  mark  will  show. 

And  I've  been  here  once  before, 
But  you  wouldn't  ever  know. 

For  the  place  has  been  a-changin' 
Like  a  girl  of  sweet  sixteen, 

And  a  fourteen-story  buildin' 
Stands  as  stately  as  a  queen. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  95 

And  then  little  baby  oceans 

That  got  tangled  in  the  hills 
Caught  the  new  "Seattle  Spirit" 

And  are  runnin'  boats  and  mills. 

And  I  kind  o'  lose  my  compass, 
For  the  car  lines  twist  like  snakes 

Till  I  seem  about  to  meet  myself 
A-comin'  round  the  lakes. 

Why,  it's  one  conglomeration 

Of  the  city  and  «the  sea, 
And  it  makes  me  pause  and  wonder 

What  its  destiny  will  be. 

As  1  watched  a  train,  a-glitterin' 

Like  a  comet  on  the  night7 
It  dove  beneath  the  city, 

And  again  appeared  in  sight. 

And  they're  diggin'  out  a  channel 

To  Lake  Washington  the  sweet, 
Where  the  ships  of  Uncle  Samuel 

Can  come  and  wash  their  feet. 

And  they  took  old  Denny  Mountain 

And  they  cast  it  in  the  sea, 
For  their  faith  is  mostly  workin' 

And  a-bringin'  things  to  be. 

Of  course  the  latest  thing  in  Fairs 

Is  the  A.  Y.  P.  unique — 
Where  your  dollars  love  to  linger 

As  you  "pay  'em  in  a  streak." 


g6  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

I  had  watched  the  fiery  serpents 
Climbin'  up  the  Bon  Man-lie 

And  was  loafiii'  'round  among  the  parks 
That  bloom  along  the  bay, 

When  a  measly  little  fellow 

Said,  a-squeakin'  through  his  nose, 

"Don't  it  make  a  Beaver  jealous 
The  way  Seattle  grows?" 

And  I  straightened  up  my  shoulders 
Like  a  boy  of  twenty-two, 

And  I  said,  "The  Western  Spirit 
Should  be  big  enough  for  TWO." 

So  here's  to  Portland  and  Seattle 
With  their  treasures  and  their  trains, 

But  they  needn't  knock  each  other 
'Cause  they  feel  their  growin'  pains! 


WEBFOOT  IN  THE  LEAD 

Well,  I've  been  to  see  the  capers 
That  they're  cuttin'  at  the  fair, 

And  you  bet  there's  somethin'  doing 
And  old  Webfoot's  gettin'  there. 

Why,  I'd  come  to  the  conclusion 
That  we'd  kind  o'  gone  to  seed, 

And  the  other  big  exhibits 
Would  be  trottin'  in  the  lead. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  97 

But  you'd  ought  to  see  them  fellers 

From  the  dried-up  eastern  slopes- 
Why,  they  call  our  cherries  peaches, 
And  our  peaches  cantaloupes ! 

And  we  have  a  little  saplin', 

For  to  hold  the  flag,  you  see, 
And  they  nearly  break  their  necks 

Just  a-lookin'  up  the  tree. 

And  a  feller  lost  his  manners 

When  he  "watched  Tacoma  grow" — 

But  a  slab  that  we're  a-showin' 
Did  some  growin'  long  ago. 

And  there  was  Homer1  makin'  pictures, 

And  Miller2  makin'  rhymes, 
(And  a  lot  of  other  fellers 

That  were  there  to  make  the  dimes). 

And  I  said,  "Trot  out  your  talent 

With  a  pencil  or  a  pen !" 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  Webfoot 

Was  a-gettin'  there  again. 

And  talk  about  "Kentucky  beauties" 
And  "The  lilies  of  the  South"— 

Why,  beside  our  Mossback  maidens 
They're  like  roses  in  a  drought ! 

And  I  saw  some  soldiers  drillin' 

With  an  "M"  upon  their  caps, 
And  I  heard  the  people  sayin' 

"Them's  a  husky  lot  o'  chaps !" 


1  Homer  Davenport.  2Joaquin  Miller. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


And  when  a  Webfoot  hits  "the  trail" 
With  his  knapsack  on  his  back, 

Why,  it's  hard  to  find  the  feller 
That  can  make  a  bigger  track. 


AM)   THE   OTHER   BIG   EXIIIIUTs 


,        „        „ 


MY  FIRST  PIECE  OF  BEAR 

In  the  fall  of  '95, 

While  the  boys  were  on  the  drive 
A-roundin'  up  the  cattle  on  the  range, 

A  trapper  friend  of  mine 

Caught  a  bruin,  fat  and  fine, 
For  the  mountains  of  Nehalem  nothin'  strange. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


99 


And  he  cut  me  off  a  piece, 

And  I  fried  it  in  the  grease, 
And  I  thought  I  had  a  morsel  very  rare ; 

But  it  smelled  so  kind  o'  funny, 

Like  a  mess  of  fish  and  honey — 
As  I  sized  up  my  first  piece  of  bear. 


But  nothin'  could  be  finer, 

And  a  hungry  "Forty-niner" 
Would  have  eaten  more  than  that  for  his  share ! 

But  my  stomach  kept  objecting 

And  I  sorter  sat  reflectin' 
Whether  I  could  really  eat  a  piece  of  bear. 


ioo  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  it  kept  a  kind  o'  sticking 

And  I  thought  I  felt  it  kickin', 
As  I  swallowed  at  my  first  piece  of  bear; 

Then  I  braced  against  the  table, 

With  a  look  the  ancient  fable 
Said  the  Trojans  in  a  battle  used  to  wear. 

And  I  just  shut  my  eyes 

And  pounced  upon  my  prize, 
Like  I  didn't  have  a  minute  for  to  spare; 

And  I  guess  it  holds  to  reason 

That  you  needn't  stop  to  season, 
When  you  get  a  fellow  hungry  as  a  bear. 

And  oftentimes  you'll  find 

That  your  taste  is  in  your  mind 
When  you're  turnin'  up  your  nose  in  the  air; 

If  you  didn't  know  its  name, 

You  could  eat  it  and  be  game, 
And  not  struggle  with  your  first  piece  of  bear. 


Come,  hurry  up,  Sonny, 

And  rustle  your  money ! 
No  time  to  chase  chipmunks  if  you're  to  be  there ! 

And  you,  Mollie  and  Bess, 

Be  a  makin'  that  dress, 
For  this  is  the  summer  we  go  to  the  Fair ! 

They'll  have  all  o'  them  shows 
And  nobody  knows 
How  big  it  will  be  till  a  fellow  gets  there ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  101 

There's  all  the  concessions 
From  foreign  possessions — 
And  your  quality  cousins'  will  be  at  the  Fair ! 

The  world's  comin'  our  way, 

But  sharpers  they  say 
Keep  you  watchin'  your  wallet  and  loaded  for  bear — 

But  we'll  camp  on  the  "Trail" 

If  it  takes  the  last  nail, 
For  we've  dug  mighty  hard  to  help  fix  for  the  Fair. 

Then  hurry  up,  Johnny, 

And  rustle  your  money, 
And  get  your  new  jacket  and  slick  up  your  hair ! 

Turn  the  calf  with  the  cow, 

And  arrange  it  somehow 
So  the  last  little  Webfoot  can  go  to  the  Fair. 

»     *     » 
GLACIER  PARK 

At  last  we've  reached  the  famous  place 
Where  panthers  pant  and  glaciers  glace; 

Where  clouds  float  low  and  fish  jump  high, 
And  icy  summits  pierce  the  sky; 

Where  icebergs  in  a  lakelet  float, 
Where  a  boy's  a  boy,  and  a  kid's  a  goat ; 

Where  deer  and  "dears"  play  on  the  rocks, 
And  the  latter  wear  bisected  frocks; 

Where  the  bighorn  plays  his  sheepish  tricks, 
And  moose  are  not  in  politics; 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  103 

Where  avalanches  crack  and  creak, 
And  Satan  slides  on  "Heaven's  Peak"; 

Where  hell  and  heaven  both  are  near, 
Where  grub  and  greenbacks  disappear; 


Where  the  tipsy  tip  the  bottle, 
And  the  ladies  tip  the  guide; 

And  the  packload  tips  the  pony, 
Till  he  tumbles  down  the  slide. 

Where  a  hotel  is  a  "chalet," 
And  a  tourist  is  a  "dude"; 

Whore  the  porcupine  pines 
When  the  tenderfeet  intrude. 


VXCLE  ABE'S  ADVICE 

You  great,  big  loafin'  darky! 

A  -whin  in'  like  a  whelp, 
AVhile  yo'  neighbor's  hay's  a-spilin' 

'Case  he  can't  git  any  help  ! 
I  want  to  tell  yo',  honey, 

De  worl'  won't  treat  you  white 
If  yo'  wait  to  load  yo'  musket 

Till  de  possum  is  in  sight. 

When  yo'  was  a  youngster,  Isaac, 
Yo'  wouldn't  go  to  school, 

But  played  aroun'  de  barnyard 
Like  a  triflm',  yearlin'  mule. 


104  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Yo'  wouldn't  work  nor  learn  a  trade, 
Now,  when  de  day's  half  done, 

Yo'se  a-huntin'  for  life's  possum 
Wid  a  little  empty  gun. 

Quit  yo'  grumblin'  'bout  yo'  chances  ! 

Shed  dat  coat  and  grab  dat  fork  ! 
Even  white  folks  should  go  hungry 

When  dey  git  too  good  to  work. 
Stuff  a  little  amernishun 

In  dat  woolly  head  to-night  — 
Bettah  always  do  yo'  loadin' 

'Fore  de  possum  is  in  sight. 


TO  AN"  EDITOR 
(On  the  Return  of  a  Manuscript.) 

So  my  "lines   are  too   heavy"  —  you   "want   something- 

light"— 

"With  less  of  humanity's  battle  for  right"- 
"With  more  of  the  jingle,  and  less  of  the  march"- 
You  want  it  like  linen  without  any  starch  ! 

"Just  touches  of  fancy,"  "without  any  fun"- 
That  wilts  like  an  onion  leaf  out  in  the  sun  ! 
Just  gushes  of  "sentiment"  —  mushy  and  thin, 
That  won't  provoke  thinking,  or  even  a  grin. 

Your  "popular  writers"  apparently  think 
That  poetry's  nothing  but  rhyming  and  ink. 
With  no  sweep  of  the  fancy,  no  food  for  the  brain, 
They  drizzle  on  smoothly  like  Oregon  rain, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  105 

They  must  rise  and  strike  fire  with  their  rhythmical  lyre, 
Or  their  tame  little  ditties  are  born  to  expire. 
\Vliy  it'  rhyming,  not  climbing,  is  all  there  is  to  it, 
I  can  write  it  myself  —  I've  a  notion  to  do  it. 

I'm  inclosing  a  sample  —  an  ample  example  — 
Of  sound  without  sense,  not  worth  a  sixpence. 
I  hope  it  will  suit,  for  it  scarce  could  be  worse 
Than  reams  of  the  stuff  you  are  printing  for  verse. 


THE  EMPTY  GUN" 

(Suggested    by    the    numerous    accidents    from    guns   that 
were  supposed  to  be  empty.) 

You  may  loop  the  loop,  and  leap  the  gap, 
You  may  bump  the  bumps,  and  trap  the  trap, 
You  may  shoot  the  chutes,  and  scoot  the  scoot> 
And  dive  the  dive  in  a  parachute; 

You  may  run  an  auto  through  a  train, 
And  skim  the  sea  in  an  aeroplane, 
You  may  mount  a  buffalo  on  the  run, 
And  then  get  killed  by  an  empty  gun. 

You  may  rob  the  rattler  of  his  skin, 

And  pull  the  beard  on  a  lion's  chin, 

You  may  wade  through  blood,  and  swallow  fire, 

And  brave  an  Irish  woman's  ire; 

You  may  crook  the  crooks  at  the  'Frisco  fair, 
And  sell  your  gizzard  to  a  millionaire 
And  live  it  through  and  think  it's  fun, 
But  you  can't  get  by  the  empty  gun. 


io6  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


EUEAL  PEOGEESS;  OE,  WE'RE  LIVIN'  'MOST 
IN  TOWN 

So  you're  sorry  for  us  fellows 

With  the  hayseed  in  our  hair, 
As  you  see  the  world's  procession 

Leave  us  hangin'  in  the  air ! 

And  you  think  I'd  trade  this  homestead 

For  a  little  "fifty  feet" 
Down  among  the  dingy  buildin's 

At  the  foot  of  Market  Street  ? 

Now  I  want  to  tell  you,  stranger, 

While  my  dinner  settles  down, 
That  us  farmers  in  the  country 

Are  a-livin'  'most  in  town. 

Why  the  horses  used  to  caper 

When  they  saw  a  little  bike, 
Like  they  thought  "Old  Nick"  himself 

Was  a-ridin'  up  the  pike. 

Now,  when  they  meet  an  auto, 

As  it's  puttin'  on  the  style 
On  our  gilt-edged  granite  highway, 

They  seem  to  kind  o'  smile, 

Like  they  think  it  must  be  winded, 

As  its  breathin'  is  so  loud, 
And  they  wonder  if  it's  rattled 

From  the  racket  o'  the  crowd, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  107 

And  we  get  your  city  daily 

By  the  handy  K.  F.  D., 
While  the  Mexicans  are  chasin' 

One  another  up  a  tree. 

And  John  is  in  the  college — 

How  it  stirs  a  father's  pride ! 
For  he's  captain  of  the  football, 

And  takes  learnin'  on  the  side. 

And  Mary's  takin'  music — 

(Now  she  calls  herself  Marie), 
And  has  all  the  variations 

As  far  as  I  can  see. 

And  we  have  the  very  preacher 

That  last  year  preached  for  you, 
For  he's  restin'  in  the  country, 

Just  as  others  ought  to  do. 

We  are  phonin'  to  the  neighbors, 

And  a  motor  line's  projected, 
And  they'll  fire  a  "wireless"  at  us 

If  we  are  not  soon  protected. 

And  we're  raisin'  coreless  apples 

To  take  with  us  to  the  fair, 
And  we'll  harness  up  our  trotters 

And  will  beat  the  motor  there. 

But  when  we're  tired  of  tumult 

And  a-campin'  on  "The  Trail," 
We  will  strike  for  clover  blossoms 

And  the  pipin'  of  the  quail. 


io8  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  while  eatin'  Jersey  butter 
And  a-layin'  in  the  shade 

We  will  pity  that  poor  fellow 
That  was  anxious  for  a  trade. 

I  want  to  tell  you,  stranger, 
While  my  dinner  settles  down, 

That  us  farmers  up  the  valley 
Are  a-livin'  'most  in  town. 


no  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


MEMORY'S  DREAM 

I  dreamed  a  dream — but  who  can  tell 
If  breathed  from  heaven  or  born  in  hell ! 

There  glided  from  the  wings  of  night 
An  angel  fair — a  shrouded  sprite. 

These  mismatched  ghosts  of  joy  and  pain 
Danced  hand  in  hand  across  my  brain — 

Together  sang  a  sad  sweet  song 

Of  bliss  divine  and  speechless  wrong. 

They  both  upon  my  heart-strings  played, 
O'er  tender  scars  and  wounds  new  made. 

Their  mystic  music  filled  the  air 

Like  lover's  laugh  and  martyr's  prayer — 

Both  blent  in  one,  for  evermore 
They  sobbed  against  the  silent  shore. 

When  I  awoke  my  cheeks  were  wet — 
The  old-time  pain  was  ling'ring  yet, 

But,  as  the  tread  on  flow'ret  fair 
Distills  the  fragrance  hidden  there, 

Those  grief-born  shadows  of  the  past 
Were  with  a  halo  overcast. 

And  thus  I  clung  to  weal  and  woe — 
They  both  were  mine  and  must  not  go ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  in 


MEDITATION 

My  life  is  such  a  dream  as  this  ; 
A  blighted  hope  —  a  honeyed  kiss  ; 

A  somber  cloud  —  a  radiant  ray; 
A  spectral  night  —  a  gilded  day. 

As  wayward  children  break  the  heart 
But  still  within  it  hold  their  part; 

As  pearls  are  born  with  price  of  pain, 
But  precious  grow  as  they  remain, 

So  wounds  that  tortured  once  the  soul 
Now  help  complete  the  perfect  whole. 

Anon  we  view  the  fitful  years 
And  find  the  rainbowr  in  the  tears. 

The  sting  of  sorrow  now  is  gone, 

The  night  of  gloom  has  burst  in  dawn. 

The  blighted  hopes  have  taken  wings 
To  lift  my  soul  to  higher  things. 


TRANSITION 

With  girlish  dress 

And  fond  caress 
She  sat  upon  her  father's  knee, 

And  whispered  oft 

In  accent  soft, 
"You're  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  me." 


ii2  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Two  twelvemonths  passed  — 

He  hastened  fast 
To  meet  his  little  girl  once  more, 

But  breathed  a  sigh 

And  wiped  his  eye 
To  find  a  woman  at  the  door. 

But  on  his  knee 

As  tenderly 
As  e'er  of  old  she  made  her  plea, 

And  whispered  sweet, 

"Just  you  —  and  —  Pete 
Are  the  only  men  in  the  world  for  me." 


LOVE'S  INTEEPEETATION 

A  maiden  sat  beside  the  sea 
And  turned  the  pages  wearily 

Of  a  booklet  in  her  hand, 

Then  threw  it  on  the  sand 
And  sighed,  "  'Tis  dry  as  dry  can  be  !" 

Again  she  sat  upon  the  sand— 
The  selfsame  book  was  in  her  hand, 

But  she  feasted  on  the  line 

As  if  it  were  divine, 
And  cried,  "'Tis  charming!  simply  grand!'' 

What  can  the  wondrous  secret  be  — 

This  metamorphic  mystery? 
For  'twas  on  her  finger  ends, 
And  she  wrote  it  to  her  friends 

And  even  sang  it  to  the  sea. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  113 

SOLUTION 

The  lense  of  love  had  caught  her  eye 
Transforming  all  the  pages  dry 

To  rainbow  glory,  for  you  see, 

The  slighted  author  proved  to  be 
Her  lover — that  was  why  and  why. 

MEDITATION 

The  Book  of  books  is  in  my  hand, 
Its  fame  has  flown  to  every  land, 

And  above  the  vengeful  roar 

Of  the  storm  along  life's  shore 
Rings  an  anthem  rich  and  grand. 

Would  you  find  a  treasure  when  you  look, 
A  hidden  flower  in  every  nook, 

Till  it  blooms  from  lid  to  cover, 

While  a  halo  hovers  over? 
Fall  in  love  with  the  Author  of  the  Book ! 


,     ,     , 


MY  BABY  SISTER  HAS  A  BEAU 

Of  all  the  changes  back  at  home, 

One  thought  keeps  surging  to  and  fro — 

It  seems  so  very,  very  strange 
That  baby  sister  has  a  beau. 

Although  the  world  is  like  a  dream, 
And  years  like  shadows  come  and  go, 

It  does  seem  hardly  possible 

That  little  Mabe  can  have  a  beau. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  115 

It  makes  me  think  I'm  getting  old, 

For  I  was  grown  you  know 
When  1  was  teaching  her  to  spell — 

And  now  they  say  she  has  a  beau ! 

I  hear  a  lisping  toddler  say, 

"Where  you  goes  I  wants  to  go"- 
With  bib  and  blocks  and  fuzzy  head, 

She  didn't  know  the  name  of  "beau." 

But  while  the  days  have  slipped  away 
The  child's  had  time  enough  to  grow — 

She's  seventeen,  and  tall  and  fair — 
Why  yes,  of  course,  she  has  a  beau! 

But  while  1  >mile  to  think  of  it, 

'Tis  serious  too,  because  I  know 
That  heartaches  often  follow  on, 

When  jnrls  bejfin  to  have  a  beau. 


„      r      , 


THE  SUMMERTIME  OF  LOVE 

S \veep  gently  o'er  the  chords  dear, 

Until  I  get  the  key 
For  a  little  summer  love  song 

Just  meant  for  you  and  me. 

The  dove  still  sings  his  love  note 
E'en  with  their  nestlings  three, 

And  this  night-wind  woos  the  cedar, 
Then  why  should  I  not  thee  ? 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  117 

If  plaintive  little  Philomel 

Can  serenade  alone, 
How  could  I  keep  from  singing 

'Mid  treasures  all  my  own? 

The  May  of  love  was  ravishing 

With  hud  and  promise  rife, 
But  fruit  and  flowers  mingle 

In  the  summertime  of  life. 

'Twas  sweet  in  nuptial  springtime 

To  watch  your  soulful  eyes 
Send  hack  their  lovelit  flashes 

Like  heralds  from  the  skies. 

But  as  now  they  gently  linger 

On  a  little  upturned  face, 
I  can  read  a  deeper  luster 

And  a  heavenlier  grace. 

And  while  you  hold  another  hand, 

And  a  fairer  brow  caress, 
The  little  lullaby  you  sing 

Is  part  for  me  I  guess ! 

We're  a  little  nest  of  love  birds, 

For  notes  almost  divine, 
From  your  downy-headed  thrushes, 

Are  chiming  in  with  mine. 

And  our  home's  a  little  corner 

Of  the  paradise  above, 
For  our  love  is  growing  warmer 

In  the  summertime  of  love. 


n8  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

FOBSAKEN 

(A  rejected  lover  sits  writing  by  the  seashore.) 

My  heart  is  far  too  sad  to  sing, 
And  yet  the  muse  would  take  its  wing 

For  one  short  flight, 
As  if  to  bear  my  thoughts  away 
From  burning  brain  and  trembling  clay, 

And  Love's  long  night. 

But  comrades  call  me  in  their  glee: 
"Come  listen  to  the  happy  sea, 

It  laughs  and  plays." 
I  hark  and  only  hear  the  moan 
Of  dying  Love,  as  on  a  stone 

She  sobs  and  prays. 

"But  look  !  Across  the  liquid  arch 
Old  Day's  battalions  gayly  march 

With  banners  bright." 
I  strain  my  eyes  and  look  in  vain, 
But  only  see  a  somber  train 

Sink  into  night. 

'Tis  vanquished  Hope,  upon  her  bier 
And  yet  alive  to  feel  and  fear 

And  bleed  and  sigh. 
And  trailing  in  her  fading  beam, 
I  see  ambition's  fondest  dream 

Droop  down  and  die. 

And  drifting  on  that  sobbing  tide 
With  broken  love  is  all  beside — 
Perhaps  my  mind. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  119 

My  sun  sinks  low  but  will  not  set, 
The  darkness  deepens  fast,  and  yet 
Love  still  is  blind. 

It  must  not  be  !     It  cannot  be  ! 
My  soul  itself  is  one  wild  sea, 

No  shore  in  sight. 

Hark  !   E'en  the  sea  gulls  seem  to  cry  : 
"Your  love  must  die  !    Your  love  must  die  !"- 

Then  cease  their  flight. 

The  diamond  dewdrops  are  but  tears 
From  yesterday,  the  ghost  of  years, 

O'er  blisses  brief. 
And  this  is  all  she  left  for  me  — 
Despondency  !  despondency  ! 

A  galling  grief. 


ION 

Come  hark  to  the  story  of  Ion, 
Of  Ion,  the  Grecian  of  old  — 

Whether  fiction  or  fact  will  not  trouble 
Since  a  legend  the  story  has  told. 

His  mother  was  Creusa  the  princess. 

His  father  the  handsome  Apollo  — 
No  wonder  from  fountain  so  noble 

A  streamlet  of  genius  should  follow. 

And  he  captured  the  people  of  Athens, 
By  his  song  like  a  magical  spell, 

And  he  captured  the  prizes  they  offered 
By  his  tragic  creations  as  well. 


120  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

But  one  of  his  hearers  romantic 
Was. a  maiden  as  fair  as  an  elf, 

Who  soon  became  subject  and  object, 
And  he  was  a  captive  himself. 

But  while  in  his  youth  and  his  laurels 
His  face  became  furrowed  with  care, 

And  seeking  the  shrine  of  his  father 
He  inquired  of  the  oracle  there. 

And  pale  with  premonitive  omens, 

While  a  message  of  love  he  was  sending, 

He  heard  the  unchangeable  verdict 
That  a  violent  death  was  impending. 

And  thinking  Patara  and  Aba 
Could  never  a  falsehood  tell, 

He  rushed  to  the  maiden  beloved 
To  bid  her  a  fond  farewell. 

She  listened  in  silence  and  trembled 
As  trembles  a  wounded  fawn, 

Then  lifted  her  face  all  pallid 
Like  Pity  awaiting  the  dawn, 

And  hushing  her  sobs  of  anguish 
She  gazed  across  the  wave, 

And  asked  that  race-old  question, 
"Can  we  meet  beyond  the  grave?" 

He  replied :  I  have  asked  the  questions 
Of  the  birds  and  flowers  vernal— 

Of  the  streams  that  flow  forever 
And  the  hills  that  look  eternal. 

I  have  asked  it  again  of  the  heavens 
As  I  walked  in  fancy  there, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  121 

And  out  of  its  azure  stillness 
Came  no  answer  to  my  prayer. 

But  now  your  face  beholding 

Which  is  fairer  than  gem-lit  skies, 

As  I  read  the  immortal  longings 

In  the  depth  of  your  tear-dimmed  eyes, 

I  am  conscious  within  of  a  kinship 
With  the  gods  in  their  home  on  high, 

For  our  love  has  transcended  the  mortal 
And  never,  no  never,  can  die. 

And  the  heart  of  my  heart  is  crying 

Of  a  region  beyond  our  ken — 
I  must  die  if  the  Fates  decree  it, 

But  7  know  we  shall  meet  again. 

And  thus  with  a  faith  triumphant, 

Outflying  the  laggard  years, 
Stood  Ion  the  fated  lover 

Till  the  maiden  dried  her  tears. 
******** 

We  hope  that  the  witch  was  a  liar, 

That  the  two  were  made  happy  in  time, 

But  the  height  of  their  love  was  holy, 
And  the  leap  of  their  faith  sublime. 

And  methinks  all  ancient  sages 
Who  walked  in  their  highest  light 

Will  some  day  stand  immortal 
With  us  who  walk  by  sight. 

I  challenge  the  heresy  hunters ! 

Let  them  make  of  it  what  they  may, 
But  the  God  I  worship  is  Just, 

And  Justice  will  find  a  wav. 


122  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

THE  EPIC  OF  THE  AGE 

(I  used  to  write  poetry,  and  prefer  that  mode  of  expres- 
sion; but  it  won't  sell,  and  romance  will. — An  Oregon 
Authoress. ) 

I.     THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  POETRY 
Must  modern  harps  be  hung  upon  the  tree 
Of  arts  forgotten  in  a  sordid  age, 
Too  gross  to  feel  the  nobler  passions  of  the  soul  ? 
AVill  fair  Columbia's  children  always  bow 
To  sensual  altars  and  the  golden  calf? 
Must  blind  commercialism  force  the  pen 
To  cast  her  genius  in  the  coins  of  trade? 

II.     THE  THEME  or  THE  UNWRITTEX  POI:.M 
"Xo  theme,  no  poet,  and  no  audience" 
Seems  echoing  from  a  thousand  critic  throats ! 
And  yet  methinks  the  muses  are  not  dead, 
And  theme  sublime  as  ever  stirred  the  soul 
Awaits  the  master  touch  of  genius. 
Has  beauty  faded  or  has  love  grown  cold  ? 
Were  "Isles  of  Greece"  more  fair  than  Xippon  Land 
That  smiles  like  child  awakened  from  its  sleep? 
Or  Homer's  horde  more  brave  than  Saxon  blood? 
Ulysses  than  the  hero  of  Manila  Bay  ? 
Are  there  not  "Holy  Grails"  of  truth  to  seek, 
And  "Troys"  of  wrong  full  worthy  of  thy  steel? 
For  ample  action  of  heroic  type 
Could  grander  stage  be  built  across  the  dome 
Of  heaven  itself  than  Lick  reveals  to  us? 
Has't  all  been  told  ?    The  earth  a  threadbare  tale  ? 
Did  e'er  the  wond'ring  eyes  of  Virgil  see, 
E'en  in  his  wildest  dream,  such  fleets  superb 
Of  floating  palaces  as  we  behold  ? 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  123 

What  more  adventurous  land  than  that  which  sleeps 

White-robed  beneath  Boreas'  shimmering  light 

Where  unknown  Yukons  roll  o'er  beds  of  gold  ? 

Is  this  not  food  for  poets  or  for  gods? 

Is  one  purblind,  and  ignorant  of  what 

Comprises  art,  who  calls  it  rich  romance? 

Is  there  no  rhythm  in  the  iron  horse 

That  gallops  o'er  the  continents,  and  trails 

His  meteoric  splendor  through  the  night, 

While  wireless  wizards  bear  on  ether  wings 

The  pulsing  passions  of  a  list'ning  world  ? 

III.     THE  COMING  POET 
Is  there  no  Homer  for  the  age  of  gold? 
No  Pilgrim  pen  to  trace  the  tragedy 
Of  social  "Paradises  Lost"  and  gained, 
And  marshal  nations  in  a  grand  review  ? 
Not  mine  the  golden  pen  immersed  in  light 
To  trace  fair  Truth  upon  the  umbral  sky— 
Xot  mine  the  Atlas  shoulders  that  shall  bear 
The  pregnant  century's  living  load — 
Not  e'en  the  melic  voices  that  adorn 
The  rich  neglected  pages  of  our  day, 
But  somewhere  now  methinks  there  dreams  a  youth 
At  times  convulsed  with  energies  divine, 
"That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar" 
Above  the  common  peaks  that  now  appear — 
The  faithful  harp,  on  which  the  age  can  play 
Her  regnant  passions  and  her  fitful  moods — 
The  mouthpiece  of  our  matchless  century !— 


124 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


SING  OUT  IN  THE  SUNLIGHT 

(A  protest  against  what  the  author  regards  as  a  com- 
mon overuse  of  the  gruesome,  occult,  and  erotic  elements  in 
literature.) 

Sing  out  in  the  sunlight,  ye  poets  of  men ! 
Too  oft  ye  have  groped  in  the  cloister  and  den. 

The  sunny  "Lucile"  you  have  driven  between 
The  walls  of  a  convent,  a  sad  "Seraphine." 

Too  long  ye  have  chosen  the  subject  uncanny, 
And  shrunken  a  heroine  into  a  granny. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  125 

Why  that  "ebony  veil  and  mysterious  face"? 
Did  not  nature  intend  that  freedom  should  grace 

The  fair  form  of  woman  ':    When  a  model  God  made, 
It  was  not  a  pale  spinster  who  wept  in  the  shade, 

But  a  flesh-and-blood  woman  in  God's  out-of-doors, 
Who  eats  when  she's  hungry  (and  probably  snores). 

"Xot  poetic,"  you  say.  but  1  pen  it  with  pride — 
She's  a  buxom  young  matron,  with  babies  beside. 

This  only  was  wrong  with  Eden's  fair  type — 

She  picked  apples  of  pleasure  before  they  were  ripe. 

The  real  is  poetic,  red  blood  has  a  charm, 

Soft  cheeks  are  abnormal  unless  they  are  warm. 

Must  romance  e'er  be  darkened  by  Clandestine's  veil  ? — 
Each  boat  on  life's  sea  have  a  sin-tainted  sail? 

'Tis  sin  that  is  prosy — dead  consciences  jar, 
But  Virtue  chords  sweetly,  and  shines  like  a  star. 

Come  out  of  your  dungeons,  ye  bards  of  "Chillon"! 
Ye  "nocturnal  orgies,"  arise  and  be  gone ! 

Xo  "oracles"  need  we,  our  omens  to  read, 

But  the  brain  and  the  Book  and  the  Spirit  to  lead. 

Instead  of  a  robin,  ye  coax  to  your  door 

Some  nondescript  "raven  with  weird  nevermore." 

Too  oft  have  ye  haunted  the  cavern  of  Doubt — 
That  modern  Avernus — and  never  came  out. 


126  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

And  more  dallied  near  some  Charybdian  verge, 
Till  they  only  could  chant  a  knell  and  a  dirge. 

The  air  is  a-throb  with  shafts  for  your  pen, 
Then  out  of  the  shadows,  ye  leaders  of  men ! 

Less  of  selfish  Chorazin  in  story  and  song, 
More  of  Bethany  beauty  to  cheer  us  along ! 

Why  dig  up  the  mummies  and  rattle  their  bones? 
Why  seek  the  seance  and  the  Cabala  stones  ? 

Why  dazzle  with  limelight  the  fancy  of  youth, 
While  millions  are  dying  for  sunlight  and  truth  ? 

0  that  Byron  and  Shelley  and  Kipling  and  Foe 
Had  fed  on  the  sunlight  till  hearts  were  aglow ! 

What  chaplets  of  glory  could  not  they  have  won ! 
What  mortal  could  measure  the  good  they  had  done ! 

Give  us  more  of  the  health  of  your  heart  and  your  brain  ! 
Give  us  more  of  the  wealth  of  a  woodland  refrain ! 

Hail  Carleton  and  Riley !  a  rollicking  team, 

Who  have  skimmed  the  creation  to  feed  us  the  cream ! 

Hail  Miller,  McFarland,  Sam  Foss,  and  Van  Dyke, 
And  lengthen  the  list  as  long  as  you  like. 

Their  wings  may  not  soar  with  the  masters  of  old, 
But  their  voice  is  not  chilled  by  aerial  cold. 

Sweet  voices,  let  none  of  their  banners  be  furled 
Till  they  waken  some  Homer  to  sing  for  the  world. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  127 

Then  out  in  the  sunlight  ye  singers  of  men, 
Let  Faith  and  her  sisters  have  freedom  again  ! 

Give  us  less  of  the  gruesome,  and  more  of  the  gold 
Filtered  out  of  the  fireside,  with  flocks  in  the  fold. 


THE  AEABIAX  HOESE 

You  ask,  "Whence  came  the  Aral)  horse. 

That  pride  of  every  land. 
Which  Davenport  has  sought  anew. 

From  the  Sultan's  royal  hand?" 

Then  list,  a  tale  of  old  Tahah, 

Which  they  tell  the  children  there. 

A<  around  the  mosque  they  linger 
For  the  Moslem's  call  to  prayer. 

A  legend  wild  of  Islam's  land 

Of  desert  heat  and  death, 
It  comes  with  scent  of  mint  and  myrrh, 

And  warm  Sirocco's  breath. 

Mohammed  and  a  hundred  sheiks 

By  Bedouin  bandits  pressed, 
Were  mounted  on  the  noblest  steeds 

That  maidens  e'er  caressed. 

From  early  morn,  till  morn  again 
Came  shimmering  o'er  the  sand, 

Xot  e'en  a  drop  of  dew  refreshed 
The  swiftly  flying  band. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  129 

On,  on  the  second  day  they  sped 

Beneath  the  brassy  sky, 
Their  spreading  nostrils  seared  with  dust, 

With  swollen,  bloodshot  eye. 

And  reeled  they  now  beneath  their  load. 

And  slower  grew  their  pace, 
And  low  the  lordly  heads  were  hung, 

And  low  the  necks  of  grace. 

But  see !    They  halt  and  sniff  the  air 

From  a  wady  down  below; 
"Dismount!"  the  swarthy  chieftain  cries, 

"And  let  the  horses  go !" 

And  fired  to  frenzy  by  their  thirst, 

And  the  rippling  song  of  hope, 
They  dash  away  with  snort  and  neigh 

Adown  the  rocky  slope. 

But  ere  the  tethers  scarce  were  loosed, 

There  came  the  sickening  cry — 
"Come  back !    The  foe  appears  again ; 

Mount!     Mount  again  and  fly!" 

But  they  flung  defiance  on  their  heels, 

Nor  heeded  curse  nor  call — 
Save  six  alone,  who  sadly  turned 

And  climbed  the  glistering  wall. 

And  each  obeyed  his  master's  voice, 

But  strove  to  speak  his  pain 
YTith  stifled  neigh  and  nodding  head 

And  salt-incrusted  mane. 


i3o  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

"Mark  each  one  well  and  let  him  go !" 

The  admiring  prophet  cries; 
"Such  loyalty  must  be  repaid, 

E'en  though  Mohammed  dies." 

They  slaked  their  thirst ;  they  lived  and  thrived, 

And  bore  Abdallah's  name, 
And  from  this  breed  of  grace  and  speed 

Our  modern  trotters  came. 

But  English  pride  and  Yankee  fire 

Refined  the  Arab  gold, 
And  breathed  the  winds  and  lightnings 

In  these  forms  of  classic  mold. 

So  Alcazar  and  Cresceus — 

Mambrinos,  Pachens — all 
Run  through  the  famous  Eysdyk  line 

To  the  Sultan's  royal  stall. 


OLD  SQUIERS 

Old  Squiers  weighed  two  hundred  pounds 

And  thirty  more  to  spare, 
But  his  boy  was  like  his  mother's  folks, 

All  peaked,  pale,  and  fair. 

And  he  drove  an  aged  buckskin  mare, 

Hipshot  and  lame  beside, 
But  the  road  would  never  get  too  steep 

For  Squiers  himself  to  ride. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  131 

And  every  time  he  passed  our  house 

They  had  a  hill  to  climb, 
And  Squiers  would  make  the  boy  get  out 

And  walk  up  every  time. 

"For  'tis  a  dirty  shame/'  he  said, 

As  he  stopped  to  let  her  blow, 
"For  us  big  fellows  both  to  ride, 

And  pull  the  critter  so." 

The  Squiers  tribe  are  not  all  dead  — 

They  want  the  weak  to  climb, 
While'  their  big  hulks  of  thrice  the  weight 

Must  ride  up  every  time. 


SUBURBAN  LIFE 

Across  his  field  the  farmer  trudged 
In  the  hard  old-fashioned  way  — 

Through  Winter's  mire 

And  Summer's  fire 
For  thirteen  hours  a  day. 

And  his  wife  bore  a  heavier  burden, 
And  shortened  life's  little  span 

As  mother,  and  nurse, 

And  cook,  and  worse, 
As  a  sort  of  a  hired  man. 

And  the  cry  went  up  from  the  country  : 
"0  City,  give  us  your  light, 

And  your  captive  fire 

That  speeds  the  wire 
With  the  news  at  morn  and  night. 


132 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


•\\IIKUE    THE    CITY   AND    COUNTRY    MEET' 

"And  give  us  the  spirit  of  Progress, 
For  we  covet  the  highest  goal. 

With  harnessed  powers, 

Give  respite  hours 
To  garnish  the  mind  and  soul." 

But  the  city  itself  was  a  Prison 
With  its  rush  and  din  and  strife — 

With  the  stifling  air 

And  the  sordid  glare 
Of  an  artificial  life. 


And  the  City  cried :  "0  Country, 
Give  us  of  your  magic  wealth — 

The  bells  at  dawn 

On  the  clover  lawn 
And  the  riches  of  home  and  health — 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


133 


"And  the  russet  robes  of  Autumn, 
Afar  from  the  stress  and  strain, 

Where  flocks  of  sheep 

Like  hillows  creep 
Across  the  rolling  plain." 

And  the  Angel  of  Life  made  answer : 
".Make  the  lot  of  both  complete !" 

And  he  poured  the  cream 

Of  each  extreme 
Where  the  city  and  country  meet. 

So  the  City  and  Country  were  wedded 
And  none  can  put  them  apart, 

For  the  blush  of  health 

And  the  glow  of  wealth 
Is  the  blending  of  mead  and  mart. 

Xow,  life  is  a  bridge  of  glory 
On  which  the  angels  stand, 

And  heav'n  bends  down 

With  a  jeweled  crown 
For  the  child  of  the  Citv  and  Land. 


LIFE  IS  A  BRIDGE  OF  GLORY 


i34  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

A  MAN  OF  FORTY 

I  stood  in  childhood's  narrow  vale 
And  viewed  the  steep  and  sinuous  trail 
That  like  a  serpent  seemed  to  climh 
O'er  hazy  heights  and  peaks  suhlime 
Until  the  pinnacle  it  passed— 
The  Mount  of  Middle  Life  at  last— 
The  age  of  forty. 

And  with  a  halo  o'er  his  head, 
A  victor  o'er  the  summit  sped 
All  glorious  in  life's  noonday  sun, 
Adorned  with  stars  and  medals  won, 
While  rainbow-tinted  on  a  cloud 
This  legend  seemed  to  shout  aloud: 
"A  man  of  forty !" 

So  far  it  seemed  to  boyhood's  eye, 
That  gilded  summit  in  the  sky ! 
Could  I  e'er  live  so  long,  and  wait 
That  outpost  of  the  Golden  Gate? 
I  sighed  and  ran  and  longed  to  be 
As  grand  as  father  seemed  to  me — 
A  man  of  forty. 

But  I  awake  this  morn  to  find 
I've  passed  that  milepost  of  the  mind, 
And  stand  amazed  that  I  am  still 
Much  as  I  was  below  the  hill — 
The  long-tailed  coat  and  bearded  chin 
Do  only  hide  the  boy  within 
The  man  of  forty. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  135 

Some  childish  things  we  put  away, 
But  more  cling  to  us  when  we're  gray. 
How  much  of  wisdom  yet  ungained! 
Like  ant-hills  are  the  heights  attained ! 
Life's  mountain  peaks  are  still  uncrowned — 
The  rainbow  tints  are  still  beyond 
This  man  of  forty. 

Though  owlish  Osiers  view  their  slain, 
Ambition  lives  and  tugs  his  chain ; 
Hope  gathers  up  the  broken  stran' 
To  weave  the  fabric  of  a  man — 
Though  seamed  and  soiled  the  garment  be, 
God  yet  can  work  a  mystery 
On  one  of  forty. 


A  NEW  SONG  OF  THE  MILL 

In  youth  we  sang  "The  Song  of  the  Mill" 
As  the  pygmy  power  of  a  playful  rill 

AVas  turning  the  rustic  buhrs  around. 
And  slow  as  an  hour-glass  ran  the  wheat 
While  a  boy  and  horse — a  team  complete — 

Awaited  their  sack  when  the  grist  was  ground. 

But  to-day  we  sing  of  a  rolling  maze 
Of  flying  belts  and  bolts  and  stays — 

Of  modern  man's  inventive  power, 
While  from  a  score  of  puffing  throats 
We  load  the  massive  trains  and  boats 

With  gilded  sacks  of  "Gold  Dust  Flour." 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  137 

Again  we  sang  "The  Song  of  the  Mill'' 
As  another  wheel  beneath  the  hill 

\\"as  wearily  weaving  its  wreaths  of  spray. 
And  a  primit  ive  saw  plied  up  and  down 
Through  a  log  hy  plodding  oxen  drawn, 

Till  they  hauled  the  day's  output  away. 

Hut  our  song  to-day  is  of  grander  stamp  — 
Of  a  hundred  loggers  in  a  camp, 

And  three  hundred  thousand  feet  per  day, 
Of  whirling  saws  and  Hying  hands. 
And  sehooners  laden   for  distant  lands. 

And  heaving  hooins  across  the  bay. 


A  POET'S  APPEAL  FOPi  THE  NATURAL 

I 

You  may  hover  round  the  drowsy  hearth, 

And  breed  inertia  if  you  will, 

With  all  the  swarm  of  kindred  ills  — 

And  pills  —  Give  me  the  open  air! 

Give  me  Xature,  even  though  it  means 

To  face  alone  her  fiercest  moods. 

I'd  drink  the  ozone  of  the  storm, 

And  step  in  Old  Boreas'  tracks 

As  he  walks  with  giant  swing  and  stride, 

Calk-shod,  across  the  continent. 

II—  THE  TREES 

And  I  love  the  shaggy  bark  on  trees. 
What  if  'tis  coarse,  and  tawny-hued, 
And  torn  by  Winter's  tomahawk  ! 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  139 

A  planing  knife  would  make  it  seem 
A  stilted,  artificial  thing. 

And  let  the  fir  grow  skyward. 

'Tis  compasslike,  and  meant  to  point 

Its  needle  to  the  zenith  pole, 

And  not  to  squat  squaw-like,  with  all 

The  primal  instincts  chained  or  killed. 

To  change  a  towering  monarch  to 

A  shingle-headed  dwarf  is  monstrous. 

Nor  daub  with  paint  the  graining  of 
Its  wood.    Would  Guido  vie  with  God 
In  sketching  witch-like  tracery 
Upon  the  bird's-eye  maple  or 
The  Douglas  fir? 

And  yet  methinks  I  hear  one  say : 

"Old  Nature's  face  is  plain — his  beard 

Is  not  the  latest  cut."    I  stoop 

Not  for  apology,  but  cry: 

"To  sheer  Time's  locks,  or  shave  his  face 

Disfigures  what  you  would  refine!" 

Ill — THE  MOUNTAINS 
And  measure  not  our  mountain  peaks 
By  water-power  and  cash  accounts. 
Wouldst  thou  tear  Tacoma's  ermine  crown 
From  off  his  beetling  Eoman  brow, 
And  Avhittle  down  the  brow  itself 
To  man-made  terraces  ? 

Must  old  Niagara  cease  to  sing, 
And  leap  in  frenzied  glory  from 
His  Alpine  heights — to  run  a  belt? 


140  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

'Tis  but  Philistine  cruelty — 

The  boring  Samson's  eyes,  to  make 

A  slave  a-grinding  at  a  mill ! 

Hear  ye,  0  blind  iconoclasts ! 

Leave  some  rare  spots  upon  the  globe 

Where  man  can  read  God's  primal  law, 

And  trace  his  signature  in  stone! 

IV— THE  HORSE 
For  native  rhythm,  and  poetry 
Of  motion,  there's  nothing  like  the  horse. 
Think  not  of  proper,  prosy  nag 
That  shambles  down  the  city  street, 
With  all  the  equus  fire  burnt  out ! 
Give  me  the  Texan  of  the  plains — 
The  long,  lithe,  red-nostriled  kind, 
AVith  eyes  white-framed,  and  bearded  chin- 
AATith  wind  like  tireless  hurricane — 

The  untamed  Spirit  of  the  AVest, 

AArith  heart  half  devil  and  half  man, 

That  keeps  you  hopping  when  you  mount, 

And  gallops  wolf-like  with  the  wind. 

Ah,  this  is  poetry  itself— 

The  rhythmic  thrill  and  throb  of  life, 

No  chuggy-chug  of  mere  machine ! 

This  is  old  Pegasus  himself, 

And  more,  for  oft  methinks  that  all 

The  muses  of  the  mystic  Nine 

Became  incarnate  in  the  horse. 

Far  better  this  for  poet  heart 
Than  all  the  coin-cast  plays, 
AVith  artificial  stage,  and  mob 
Of  money-mad  and  pleasure-crazed. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  141 

Let  me  gallop  on  and  on,  into 

The  mystic  table-land  of  Night, 

Where  fade  from  sight  all  marks  of  man. 

And  now  I  walk  my  horse  and  gaze 

Into  the  stany  pasture  lands 

That  hang  o'erhead — and  hark!  I  hoar 

Above  the  tinkle  of  my  spurs 

The  frozen  echoes  of  the  clang 

Of  steel,  as  in  the  icy  still 

The  Gre^t  Bear  drags  his  clinking  chain 

Across  the  trembling  firmament. 

V      V      » 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  COAST 

Let  the  roar  go  up  from  the  city ! 
Let  the  armies  of  Greed  surge  on ! 

But  give  me  the  roar 

Of  a  surf-bound  shore, 
Where  Liberty  greets  the  dawn. 

Let  the  roar  go  up  from  the  city ! 
Let  them  jostle  for  place  and  power ! 

But  give  me  the  shade, 

Where  God  has  made 
The  moss  in  the  laurel  bower. 

Let  the  roar  go  up  from  the  city ! 
Some  are  wed  to  the  luxuries  there, 

But  wild  and  free 

As  a  hawk  I'd  be, 
In  an  emerald  forest  air. 


142  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


Let  the  roar  go  up  from  the  city ! 
From  a  life  that  is  stilted  in  pain, 

Till  the  glimmer  and  gleam 

Of  Society's  dream 
Shall  tremble  and  break  with  the  strain. 

God  pity  the  poor  in  the  city, 
Whose  hearts  on  their  hinges  rust — 

Who  sigh  for  the  trees 

And  the  ocean  breeze 
But  are  chained  in  the  heat  and  dust. 

Let  the  roar  go  up  from  the  city ! 
But  soon  there  shall  ascend 

A  note  more  clear, 

And  deep,  and  dear, 
When  a  man  in  God  shall  blend, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  143 

And  the  trailing  mists  of  the  morning 
Shall  usher  the  gladsome  hours, 

When  human  art 

With  Nature's  heart 
Shall  strew  the  earth  with  flowers. 


„     ,      „ 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  NATURE;  OR,  THE 
TEMPLE  SERVICE  OF  THE  SEASONS 

PRELUDE 

Ordained  of  God  to  preach  the  truth  to  men, 

The  universe  itself  a  temple  vast, 
Sweet  Nature,  changing  vestments  now  and  then, 

Conducts  one  service  while  the  twelve  months  last. 

For,  ere  God's  ringer  touched  the  sacred  stone 
That  gave  the  Law  to  Moses  and  the  race, 

His  praise  through  aeons  rolled  from  zone  to  zone — 
The  seasons  four,  one  grand  quartet  of  grace. 

Then  come  with  rev'rent  heart  and  list'ning  ear, 
Attend  the  service  this  fair  priestess  brings, 

Although  perchance  a  minor  note  we  hear 
E'en  while  the  choir  a  Jubilate  sings. 

SPRING 

The  spring  is  Nature's  convocation  time. 

The  temple,  garlanded  from  nave  to  dome, 
Will  hold  an  oratorio  sublime 

Proclaiming  that  the  King  of  kings  has  come. 


i44  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


The  waking  world  for  worship  seems  to  yearn. 

Buds  burst  themselves  in  over-ecstasies. 
Till  incense  flows  from  many  a  flowret  urn, 

To  blend  with  balsam  from  the  balmy  trees. 
Hark !  Myriad  bells  announce  the  hour  of  song, 

As  bird  and  blade  and  every  living  thing 
Calls  to  our  fallen  race,  a  dull-eared  throng: 

"God  lives,  and  life  is  yours — arise  and  sing." 

The  treble  of  the  winged  choir  we  hear, 
"With  soft  contralto  of  the  swaying  tree, 

While  tenor  tones  of  rippling  waters  near 
Blend  with  the  hollow  basso  of  <the  sea. 

SUMMER 

Green-sandaled  Spring  no  longer  walks  the  lea — 
The  em'rald  belt  he  bound  about  his  bride 

Now  turns  to  gold  beneath  the  alchemy 

Of  her  whose  wand  shall  still  the  worship  guide. 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


The  summer  is  her  hour  of  argument. 

The  sermon  grows  more  powerful  and  intense, 
Convincing  all  beneath  God's  cloud-girt  tent, 

If  they  but  listen  ere  their  summons  hence, 

That  God  in  wisdom  made  the  world  complete; 

That  all  may  dwell  in  Him  when  earth  is  done. 
And  lo,  like  quiv'ring  plains  of  noontide  heat. 

Their  fiery  xeal  has  risen  with  the  sun. 

The  vast  assemblage,  filling  earth  and  sky. 

Breaks  forth.     Rare  anthems  rise  and  roll. 
"Forget  not  all  his  benefits,"  they  cry, 

While  echoes  answer,  "Bless  the  Lord,  my  soul!" 


AUTUMN 

The  altar  service  of  the  ripening  year, 
When  pious  Nature  makes  her  solemn  call ! 

The  rustling  of  her  surret  robe  I  hear, 

And  mellow  hearts  like  mellowing  apples  fall. 


146  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Heads  bow,  and  chant  with  husky  breath : 

"Seed  time  and  harvest  shall  not  cease  their  round"- 

And  echoes  from  the  wintry  sea  of  Death 

On  deep'ning  stillness  float  with  plaintive  sound. 

'Tis  Indian  Summer,  and  its  minor  strain 
Of  mingled  sadness  and  of  chastened  mirth 

Soon  dies  like  distant  sobbing  of  the  main. 
'Tis  Nature's  benediction  on  the  earth. 

WINTER 

As  man,  once  turned  against  the  Holy  One, 

Gropes  through  the  Arctic  Winter-night  of  sin, 

Our  sphere  no  longer  leans  toward  the  sun 
Whose  kiss  its  daily  light  and  life  has  been. 

Yet  pious  Nature  has  not  ceased  to  pray, 

Though  lulled  to  sweet  forgetfulness  she  seems — 

Death  but  reveals  the  resurrection  ray 

And  o'er  the  tomb  the  Bow  of  Promise  gleams. 

The  winter  is  her  hour  of  secret  prayer, 

When  she  retreats  and  waits  for  strength  anew, 

By  angels  wrapt  in  robes  of  ermine  rare, 

Thus  Nature  worships  God  the  whole  year  through. 

*     -r      »- 
THE  VICTORY  OF  FAITH 

What  did  the  sobbing  night  wind  say 
As  it  bore  my  thoughts  across  that  bay 
Where  dying  comrades  waved  their  hand 
And  vanished  into  the  shadow  land  ? 

Each  surge  and  swell  was  a  funeral  knell 
And  only  tolled  "Farewell,  farewell !" 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  147 

And  the  word  was  wafted,  wail  on  wail, 
Like  a  wounded  wind  in  a  tattered  sail, 
Till  my  heart  grew  sick  of  the  grief-blown  bay, 
And  I  looked  beyond  to  the  Gates  of  Day, 
And  I  cried,  "0  God,  touch  thou  mine  ear  — 
At  the  turn  o'  the  tide  I  wait  to  hear  !" 

Now,  this  is  the  message  that  floats  to  me 
On  the  wings  of  Faith  from  the  Infinite  sea, 
Fresh  from  the  lips  we  laid  in  the  sod, 
Now  limpid  with  life  and  the  glory  of  God  — 
Singing  and  ringing  it  crosses  the  wave, 
"Heaven  is  true,  be  brave,  be  brave." 


AN  ECHO  FROM  THE  SEA 

A  s  a  shell  upon  the  shore 
Has  an  echo  evermore 

From  the  sea, 
As  I  lift  to  my  ear 
And  the  music  soft  and  clear 

Comes  to  me; 

So  this  tide-tossed  soul  of  mine 
Has  an  echo  still  divine 

From  above, 

Though  it  carries  many  a  scar 
And  the  storm  had  borne  it  far 

From  God's  love. 

But  the  Shepherd  of  the  sea 
Took  me  from  the  vile  debris 
On  the  shore, 


148 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


Made  my  heart  with  his  to  blend 
That  an  echo  might  ascend 
Evermore. 

Drifting  one,  whoe'er  you  be, 
Tossing  on  life's  sinful  sea, 

Sorely  driven, 
Hark  the  echo  in  thy  soul 
Calling  for  a  nobler  goal  — 

Cod  and  heaven. 


* 


TRIUMPHUS;  OE,  THE  VANQUISHMENT  OF 
FATE 

I  sat  upon  the  sad  sea  wall 

And  heard  the  night  bird's  mournful  call, 

Where  an  inlet  held  two  hills  apart, 
As  things  oft  sever  heart  from  heart, 


ISO  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

Till  chilling  currents  roll  between, 
Where  once  they  touched  in  rapture  keen. 

The  tide  was  bearing  from  the  sea 
Her  daily  freight  of  mystery. 

The  waves  leaped  up  the  granite  gray, 
But  backward  tumbled  in  dismay; 

• 

Like  vanquished  legions  of  the  tide 
They  fell,  while  others  came  and  died. 

And  higher  rose  the  water's  edge, 
And  sharper  grew  the  jutting  ledge. 

One  waning  star  peered  through  a  cloud 
Like  dying  eye  from  out  a  shroud, 

And  saw  a  fragile,  trembling  form 
Buffeted  hard  by  wave  and  storm — 

An  unfledged  bird,  with  piteous  call, 
Was  beating  on  the  cold  sea  wall. 

The  scowling  cliff  it  could  not  scale — 
It  beat  the  tide  to  no  avail. 

So,  like  a  quivering  wretch  of  fate, 

It  could  but  bruise,  and  bleed,  and  wait. 

SUGGESTION 

Next  day  there  tossed  upon  my  mind 
That  naked  bird  in  cruel  wind, 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT  151 

And  strangely  mingled  was  its  cry, 
With  all  earth's  anguish — with  the  sigh 

Of  dying  saint  'neath  Roman  rods, 
Who  fought  against  satanic  odds — 

And  all  the  helpless  wails  and  tears 
That  echo  down  the  vibrant  years, 

Where  gurgling  blood  and  fiendish  lust 
Make  deepest  hell  but  mildly  just. 

Thus  one  ill-fated  albatross 

Seemed  linked  with  every  crown  and  cross. 

I  must  at  least  find  where  it  lay, 
And  heap  the  sand  above  the  clay, 

"To  teach  the  cruel  sea,"  I  said, 
"That  Pity  is  not  also  dead." 

It  surely  ceased  its  struggle  sore, 

And  helped  to  strew  the  festering  shore, 

Where  larger  lives  through  countless  years, 
Have  traced  their  epitaph  in  tears. 

EMANCIPATION 

But  not  a  trace  of  wing  or  limb 
Found  I  among  the  wreckage  grim, 

Till,  hearing  an  exultant  cry, 
I  found  the  victim  did  not  die. 


152  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

For  when  the  gracious  day^was  born, 
The  tide  rushed  out  to  meet  the  morn, 

The  wavelets  clapped  their  hands  in  glee, 
And  chased  each  other  back  to  sea. 

"With  graceful  poise  and  placid  breast, 
She  rode  the  rushing  billows'  crest, 

Past  cliff  and  gorge,  o'er  bar  and  bay, 
To  the  open  sea  away,  away! 

'Twas  this  for  which  her  life  was  given, 
The  widening  sea  her  fairest  heaven ! 

MEDITATION 

And  as  I  watch  the  fading  glow 
Of  dying  embers,  ere  I  go, 

I  see  this  bird,  an  emblem  true, 

Of  what  each  victor  passes  through. 

Oft  seeming  crushed  by  unseen  power, 
The  victim  of  an  evil  hour; 

Harassed  by  fiends  without,  within, 
A  bondslave  to  the  powers  of  sin, 

And  bound  to  galling  tyranny 
Of  class — that  baneful  upas  tree. 

He  seems  an  ox,  and  harder  driven 
When  best  his  bleeding  soul  has  striven. 


TO  THE  OPEX   SEA  AWAY,  AWAY" 


154  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


DEGENERATION 

How  oft  in  Olivets  like  this, 
Betrayed  by  some  foul  Judas  kiss, 

A  man  forgets  his  soul  is  free, 
And  fails  to  win  his  Calvary. 

He  loses  heart,  and  hope,  and  soul, 
And  falls  with  shadow  on  the  goal. 

Dull-eyed  he  plods  before  the  goad, 
The  fruits  of  sin  his  biggest  load. 

He  treads  the  garden  of  his  soul 
And  leaves  no  tender  flowret  whole. 

He  feeds  on  envy,  hate,  and  death, 
Till,  reeking  foul  with  Bacchus  breath, 

He  bears  a  soul  as  grossly  void 
As  ever  graced  an  anthropoid. 


ASPIRATION 

But  haste,  0  Muse,  to  bring  the  news 
That  every  soul  has  power  to  choose ! 

No  "checkmate"  mars  the  Moral  Plan! 
No  Fate,  but  in  the  mind  of  man ! 

For  ere  the  will  has  sealed  his  fate, 
There  still  remains  a  golden  gate 


156  THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 

To  Victory.    In  wildest  wars, 

"Ye  shall  be  more  than  conquerors" 

I { ings  out  a  slogan  for  the  race — 
A  heavenly  voice  of  hope  and  grace. 

No  night  so  dark,  no  sea  so  wide, 
But  comes  at  length  the  ebbing  tide, 

When  aspirations  may  take  wings 
And  bear  the  soul  to  better  things. 


EXULTATION 

Gaze  once  again  where  billows  toss 
The  helpless  fledgling  albatross — 

With  cliff  and  tide  and  wind  at  war — 
Art  thou  as  frail,  or  help  so  far? 

My  soul  seemed  once  in  such  a  plight 

As,  struggling  through  the  deep'ning  night, 

Bold  barriers  rose  on  every  side 
Save  where  the  cold  resistless  tide 

With  unseen  power  still  bore  me  on 
Against  the  cliff.    My  strength  was  gone; 

And  aspirations  grand  and  high 
Seemed  one  by  one  to  droop  and  die; 

Till  suddenly  I  saw  a  star 

Gleam  through  the  lowering  clouds  afar— 


THE  WESTERN  SPIRIT 


157 


A  star  more  radiant  with  the  years 
Dispelling  doubts,  and  quelling  fears. 

And  as  I  gazed  the  tide  was  turned, 
My  heart  with  hope  now  wildly  burned, 

And  led  by  its  entrancing  beam 
I  sail  an  ever  widening  stream 

Where  every  faculty  of  soul 
Kxpands  in  His  divine  control. 

CONCLUSION 

They  are  the  Vanquishers  of  Fate 
Who  bravely  strive  and  pray  and  wait. 

For  ere  his  final  doom  shall  fall, 

The  hosts  of  heaven  shall  hear  his  call. 

And  rally  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
All  allies  for  his  victory. 

The  heart  heroic  will  not  down 

Then  rise,  0  soul,  and  claim  thy  crown! 


Ill  II"     " 

A    000  111  410    7 


